Semantics
by The Starhorse
Summary: Prowl says 'potato', and Sideswipe says 'potahto'. You may guess where this is going.
1. Round 1

**Semantics**

_Sideswipe_, Prowl's voice crackled to life over the red warrior's comm link, _please report to my office_.

_No, thank you_, Sideswipe sent by way of reply.

There was a brief pause, then, _Excuse me?_

_I said_, Sideswipe sent politely, _no thank you_.

_It wasn't a request. _

_You said please._

_Yes, I did._

_Meaning_, Sideswipe explained, '_if you please'. And since it would not please me, I don't please. So, no thank you. But thanks for asking._

_Fine then, _came the sound of Prowl audibly narrowing his optics, _Sideswipe_, _get down to my office NOW_.

_Define now_.

_I mean this instant_.

_Which instant_?

_THIS INSTANT. NOW_.

_Well, _Sideswipe transmitted,_ you keep changing your story. Every time you say 'this instant', it's a new instant. During which instant do you require my presence_?

_Sideswipe…_Prowl's vocalize rolled dangerously over the airwaves.

_Yes, Prowl?_

_Get to my office right now._

_But 'now' is 'now',_ Sideswipe countered. _And since 'now' is now 'past' by several seconds, you have asked me to do the impossible. Prowl, I'm not a magician._

_Sideswipe,_ Prowl snapped, _if you don't get your sodding afterparts directly down to my office, I am going to show you the meaning of sorry._

_Well, now Prowl, let's be realistic,_ Sideswipe replied. _What you really mean is that WHEN I get my sorry afterparts down there, you're going to show me the meaning of sorry. I mean, by the sounds of it, you're already pretty peeved, which means that you're going to penalize me whether I come down there or not. Which means that any rational mech would definitely NOT want to come down there now that you've offered a threat. Which, logically, defeats the point of your threat in the first place._

_Have it your way._ Prowl's clipped tones were beginning to suggest that some kind of emotional hull breach was imminent. _Get down here AND I'll show you the meaning of 'sorry'._

_Well, now I REALLY don't please to come down there._

_Sideswipe, get down here right now! That is an ORDER! _

_Do I look like a happy meal?_ Sideswipe sent, voice shot through with mock hurt. _Do you think you can just order me up with fries? I have feelings, you know._

_Which I'm going to stab to death with an energy sword the next time I see you, you son of a glitch, so get down here!_

_Well, there you go using hyperbole,_ Sideswipe pointed out. _Have you ever noticed that overstatement actually weakens an argument?_

_You Primus-fonging, glitch-ridden humper droid, get the SLAG down here RIGHT SLAGGING NOW!_

_Which 'now'?_

click

* * *

"That," Sunstreaker commented as he fiercely punched the X-box controller with his thumb, "is the most unprofessional, immature, and unnecessary thing I've seen you do in a year."

"Wow," Sideswipe replied, sounding truly touched, as he wrestled with his own control, "thanks, bro. Coming from you, that's something."

Several zombies flew into bits, as the sounds of digital chain saws reverberated out of the speakers. "So," Sunstreaker asked, "you going down to his office?"

"Nah," Sideswipe shook his head, face screwed up in concentration as he hacked through another throng of the undead. "Gonna make him come fetch me."

"Yeah," Sunstreaker nodded, "that's what I'd do."

Several more minutes passed, during which time the zombie underworld suffered more carnage at the hands of the twins. At length, Sunstreaker commented casually, "Do they serve fries in Hell?"

Sideswipe shrugged. "Hope so."

Sunstreaker smiled without taking his optics off of the screen. "Me, too."


	2. Round 2

Prowl did not, in fact, go fetch Sideswipe; after all, he was not the 'play fetch' type. Instead, he merely brought up the scheduling matrix, made a few carefully calculated changes, and then he waited.

He did not have to wait long. After a few days of avoiding Prowl, Sideswipe seemed to realize that nothing immediately painful was going to happen, and Prowl watched the warrior drop his guard. He seemed pleased with himself, buoyed by his success at being so flippant and getting away with it. Energized by his victory, Sideswipe strutted about the Ark as though he owned every circuit and panel, and Prowl watched him quietly as the warrior breezed through his duty rotations in a cloud of self satisfaction. But this only lasted so long, and as the days went by, Sideswipe's haze of glee began to fade, and Prowl watched as a dawning realization began to steal over the warrior's features. The duty rotations rolled on, and the warrior began to grow weary, and at length it seemed that he began to notice that something was not quite right.

It didn't take a brilliant mathematician to deduce the problem. Neither did it take much more than a casual comparison of schedules. Glee was replaced by puzzlement. Puzzlement grew sour. And when sourness became a grimly haggard mech with smudged gloss, mud-packed wheel wells, and a dented quarter panel, Sideswipe had finally had enough.

It was about ten days into Prowl's campaign when the warrior finally snapped. Prowl had just stepped outside the Ark as Sideswipe rolled in from patrol, and when Sideswipe caught sight of him, he began striding Prowl's way in about twelve shades of temper.

"Afternoon," Prowl greeted him with a light nod.

But Sideswipe was having none of it. "You wanna tell me what's up with my new schedule?" the warrior barked as he closed the last few strides.

"No, thank you," Prowl replied politely.

Sideswipe lifted his lip in a sneer, optics flat. "Cute," he snapped.

"Well," Prowl pointed, out, "you did ask if I _wanted_ to –"

"Prowl!" Sideswipe snarled, cutting him off. "I just came off of double patrol, and now I'm assigned to Red Alert for the next twelve hours."

"Yes, I see," Prowl said mildly.

"You have me pulling triples," Sideswipe barked, both hands on his hips, "and I want to know why."

"Triple shifts?" Prowl furrowed his brow, looking pleasantly puzzled. "That's odd. I only have you down for one shift per day."

"Try three," Sideswipe corrected him, optics fritzing slightly. He really did look like hell.

"Well, hmm…" Prowl pulled a datapad out of one of his compartments and happily perused the contents for a moment before putting it away again. "No, I've double-checked. You're on for one shift per day at 36 hours daily."

Sideswipe leaned forward, as though he hadn't quite understood what Prowl had said. "Excuse me?" the warrior asked. "How in the sodding hell am I working 36 hours per day?"

"Well," Prowl explained quite patiently, "regulations state that the length of a regular, non-battle duty shift shall be up to fifty percent of a given planetary rotation, based on the planet of station."

"But –" Sideswipe sputtered, hands in the air as though near to clutching his own helmet in a fit of aggravation, "there are only twenty-four hours in a day!"

"Not when you're assigned to Pluto."

"I'm not on Pluto!" Sideswipe bellowed.

"Not currently," Prowl affirmed, "but I often think of sending you there, so I preemptively assigned you to save on paperwork down the road."

"What!?" Sideswipe was actually clutching his helmet now.

"And actually," Prowl added, "since Pluto's day is approximately one hundred and fifty-three hours in duration, I took the liberty of only scheduling you at twenty percent of rotation instead of fifty, which means I'm really doing you a favor."

"You—" Sideswipe sputtered, stabbing a finger in Prowl's face, "you can't do that."

"In fact, I can," Prowl assured him. "It's all perfectly legal, and you have no choice but to abide by the rules, unless, of course, you want to file an appeal with our unit's head of regulations."

"But that's you!"

"Yes, it is."

Seething, one hand still gripping the side of his helmet, Sideswipe stared at Prowl for what seemed like a full minute. "You…" he breathed at last, one finger still wavering dangerously near Prowl's nose, "…you are the devil, and I hate you."

Prowl smiled nicely. "Of course, you can always go over my head and take this to Optimus Prime."

But Sideswipe was too proud for that, and Prowl knew it. Even better, Prowl knew that Sideswipe knew that Prowl knew it, and that gave the tactician a warm, glowy feeling inside. Reeling, and swaying slightly with fatigue and nerves, Sideswipe leaned in further, optics bright and dark. But whatever he was going to say was cut off by the abrupt sound of Prime's voice.

"Everything ok over here?" the commander asked as he strode into view. "I heard shouting."

Slowly, Sideswipe slid his smoldering gaze in Prime's direction, and for a moment Prowl almost thought he was going to speak up. Primus, he sure did look like hell, and after ten days of triples, Prowl wouldn't have blamed the warrior if he'd caved and tattled to Prime like a little nancy. But that would have been like admitting that Prowl had won, and instead Sideswipe merely raised his chin, steadied himself, and replied in a tight voice, "Everything's just…peachy."

Prowl almost respected him for that.

"Well," Prime nodded, crossing his arms. "Good then. Why don't you head on in?"

Looking murderous, Sideswipe slid one last venomous glance in Prowl's direction, fingers twitching. But it seemed that he thought better of throttling the tactician outright, especially in front of the Autobot commander, and instead simply turned to go.

"Oh, and Sideswipe," Prime added before the warrior had gone too far, "you look terrible. Try to get down to the wash rack sometime soon? I'd hate to throw the regs at you for hygiene."

The warrior paused, back turned, and Prowl thought that was going to be it. But some epic reserves of strength must have been hidden away somewhere in the warrior's internal works, because all he did was say after several moments of silence, "Will do, Prime." Then with his fists clenched at his sides, he stalked away into the Ark, and went off to self-destruct somewhere on his way to fun-time with Red Alert. Or so Prowl presumed.

"So…" Prime asked mildly after the warrior had gone, "tormenting Sideswipe again?"

"That would be childish," Prowl replied.

"Uh huh." Prime tilted his head. "Dare I ask what he did?"

"No."

Behind the mask, Prime smiled darkly. "He got you good, huh?"

Prowl slid a gaze up toward the commander, but kept his face smooth, and admitted to nothing.

"Ah, well, I'll find out sooner than later." Prime patted Prowl's shoulder before turning to make his own way into the Ark, "Just try to leave him in one piece, will you?"

Turning to follow behind the commander, Prowl smiled to himself, and replied, "I always do." Which was true. Because killing Sideswipe quickly just wouldn't be as much fun.


	3. Round 3

The real bother to Prowl was that Sideswipe had an ace in the hole. Not everyone had one. Some had sevens, and a few had jacks, but when it came right down to it, it was Sideswipe alone who held the ace of spades.

It was down to simple math, and it went like this. There was and had always been a series of neat equations which defined all forms of survival around the Ark. Take Sunstreaker, for example. Everyone would admit that, in any sort of contest, one Sunstreaker would always outweigh one Bumblebee. However, should Bumblebee decide to play the Jazz card, Sunstreaker would nearly always lose. Bumblebee and Jazz, having been in special ops together, were longtime friends, and Jazz, being not only high-ranking, but well connected, would thereby always outweigh Sunstreaker in the Autobots' social and political hierarchy.

However, it wasn't always down to rank. Sunstreaker, for example, could play the Sideswipe card, and by sheer devilry and wit (the latter of which Prowl was only grudgingly admitting), the pair could very often outweigh the Jazz card. But then, Jazz was very good friends with Prowl, who was also well connected, and who outranked everyone involved. Add to that Prowl's tactical genius, and inevitably Sideswipe and Sunstreaker would find themselves in the brig, and Bumblebee, by successfully playing his hand of cards, would come out the winner.

But that was only the tip of the iceberg, and no one was exempt. Cliffjumper would nearly always outmaneuver Windcharger, but Windcharger plus Brawn always meant a dead loss for Cliffjumper. Now, Cliffjumper could appeal to Hound for help, but Hound was no heavyweight, and no good in a contest of social pecking order (being neither charismatic nor rude enough), so Cliffjumper would then be relegated to whomever he hadn't managed to piss off in the last week or so. Which meant, usually, that poor Cliffjumper ended up pretty low in the social deck, and therefore rarely won any sociopolitical duels.

Moving up the food chain, one would find the likes of Mirage, who was witty enough to hold his own for the most part, but socially challenged enough to need to. Mirage fared about as well as Cliffjumper when it came to needing backup, and so despite his considerable intelligence and good taste, mostly he found himself outclassed by Autobots who were both bigger and better connected than himself.

From there, one moved up to find more complex alliances and groups, ranging in formidability based on any combination of strength, loyalty, and other factors that Prowl was certain would take him weeks to chart out should he ever choose to build probability models on the subject. In essence, however, (if the Autobots' social and political web could be boiled down to a single point), the bottom line was that rank wasn't everything, solid social ties were better than credits, and ethics were a gray area best trampled into submission by the hooves of unwashed politicians.

Which brought Prowl back to his primary concern. Because really, mathematics aside, what it all really boiled down to was who had Big, Mean Friends. Which meant, in this contest between Prowl and Sideswipe, that the turning of the tables was only a matter of time.

Of course, it didn't happen right away. No, it seemed instead that Sideswipe preferred to suffer in martyred silence. Perhaps it was a matter pride, or maybe just pure, simple stubbornness that made Sideswipe bide his time. Or perhaps the warrior was simply accumulating the wear and tear for the final effect, and after a while the tactician began to suspect that when the warrior finally made his move, that effect was bound to be dazzling.

Little did he realize just how much so.

It happened one Tuesday morning in the mess hall. Prowl was sitting next to Jazz, and perusing the contents of a datapad as he absently sipped his energon. Beside him, Jazz was prattling away about some useless bit of pop culture trivia, and as usual Prowl was paying him no attention whatsoever when all at once the saboteur cut the chatter and let out a long, low whistle of delight.

"Ooooh, lawd," Jazz said in an entirely-too-gleeful voice, "he's finally goin' for it."

Frowning, Prowl looked up to find the saboteur fighting hard to hide a grin. Prowl turned his head, following Jazz's line of sight, and, with a sinking feeling, the tactician saw to his dismay that Sideswipe was, in fact, 'going for it'.

It was very subtle, the way he did it. Head up, face drawn in that sort of pain-enduring way, Sideswipe slowly made his way past Ratchet's table. With a dull feeling of horror, Prowl watched as the warrior used all of his theatrical arts to 'hide' his limp, walking slowly enough to show a normal gait, but then -- _just then_ -- letting a bit of a wobble slip. He didn't do it in front of Ratchet; that would have been too obvious. No, he waited until he was just past the CMO's table and, counting on Ratchet's legendary peripheral vision, Sideswipe wobbled and limped just hard enough to have to grab the corner of a table for balance.

And that was all he needed to seal the tactician's fate.

"Sideswipe," the medic barked.

Wobbling _just_ ever so slightly, Sideswipe turned, face meek as an April lamb. "Yes, your Ratchetness?"

Elbows leaning on the table, Ratchet fixed the warrior with a beady look. "What in Primus' hemorrhagic name are you doing with that limp?"

Face blithe, Sideswipe spread his hands. "What limp?"

The medic stabbed a finger at the warrior's right leg. "THAT limp."

Sideswipe shrugged. "I stumbled, that's all."

Ratchet snorted. "You don't stumble."

The majority of the room was watching now. They all knew what was going on, every last one of them. Affecting a look of pure innocence (as if the theatrics he'd been putting on before weren't enough), Sideswipe touched his chestplate with one hand. "Me?" he asked, managing a look of almost-believable humility. "Come on, Ratchet -- everyone trips. I'm fine." With a shrug and a wave, he turned to go again, and just _ever_ so slightly, allowed his right knee to wobble again.

"Right there, you little glitch," the medic crowed. "Now gimp your happy aft on down to medical before I stick my foot up your afterparts."

Sighing, Sideswipe began to make his laborious way toward the med bay. "Yes, Ratchet."

"And you don't sass me," the medic snapped, getting up and draining the last of his morning ration.

"Never, your Ratchetness," Sideswipe quipped with a barely-hidden grin and another "hint" of a limp, the burly medic already following after him. Head down, face shrewd, Ratchet was clearly gauging the warrior's gait, already judging the source of his limp, and Prowl was at once forcibly reminded of Beagle's Red Bull.

"So," Jazz asked from beside him, "do you have an epitaph already picked out, or do you want me to just sort of wing it?"

Staring after the medic, Prowl paused, his professional pride at war with his instinct to survive. Quite sadly for him, however, (and he would admit later to regretting this terribly), pride won out. Sideswipe had stepped on his last nerve, and he wasn't going to take any slag off of the medic either. It was a character flaw in Prowl, one that made him inflexible sometimes even to his own detriment. But today he didn't care. Ace or not, Prowl just plain wasn't backing down.

"Don't be ridiculous," Prowl said mildly as he collected his datapad, and gathered himself to leave. "It's not that bad."

Jazz stared back at him, expression halfway between incredulity and pity. "Prowl man, today is not that day. Don't do the stubborn thing today."

"Sideswipe earned his punishment," Prowl replied calmly, "and I see no reason why Ratchet should complain."

But the words "reason" and "Ratchet" weren't often used in the same sentence. "You do know you're gonna die," Jazz pointed out.

To which Prowl replied with a sigh. "Really, Jazz, I think you're overreacting. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

But even as Prowl turned to make his dignified way from the room, he knew deep down that he was officially, unequivocally, and majestically screwed.

* * *

The summons to Ratchet's office came even sooner than Prowl had planned. He'd just had time to get down to the the command center, where he was going over the day's agenda with Jazz (who was making sure to keep at least an arm's length from ground zero), when he heard his name sound like a death knell over the intercom.

_Ratchet to Prowl_, the medic's flat tone came snaking over the airwaves.

Jazz shot him a pitying look.

_Yes?_ Prowl tried to put on his most casual tone.

_Get down to my office._ It wasn't a request.

_I'm, uh, very sorry, Ratchet. Could it wait until after fifteen hundred? I'm a bit bus--_

_NOW. _Now it really wasn't a request.

Then the lightbulb went on, and Prowl was gripped by what he could only describe later as a stubborn moment of insanity. _Define 'now'._

Jazz looked thunderstruck. "Oh no you didn't." He gaped, faceplate slack with dismay. "You _didn't_."

Over the intercom, there came the briefest of silences, a dreadful hiss of static, and then Ratchet's voice sounded again, so evenly it made Prowl's fuel run cold. _If you'd like to play a game of semantics with me, we can do that._

_I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,_ Prowl sent back, trying and failing at a pretense of calm.

_Oh_, _I'm sure you don't,_ Ratchet's voice replied, smooth as a sword being drawn from the scabbard. _But you will._

[click]

Jazz merely looked at Prowl in horror. "Man, you better run like _hell_."

* * *

Sadly for Prowl, however, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Sideswipe, to put it plainly, was the devil. And if Prowl as executive officer of this unit couldn't hand out a penalty to one of the worst miscreants in the history of the entire sodding Autobot military, then he may as well hand over his rank and quit the job. There had to be order, an inflexible set of rules, and just because the Chief Medical Officer had made a frigging pet out of that spawn of the Inferno didn't mean Prowl couldn't enforce the sodding law if he saw fit. Break a law, go to jail. There were no passes.

So instead of making plans for his extradition to Canada (as wiser mechs might have done), Prowl spent the day convincing himself of his moral position. In fact, by mid-morning, he'd worked himself into such a state of holy wroth that he almost wished Ratchet would round the corner, so he could have it out with him. It was Prowl's right to issue disciplinary action, and no cranky old nag of a medic was going to tell him otherwise.

So, with his professional pride firmly intact (and Jazz quite suddenly nowhere to be seen), Prowl decided to simply go about his day as if nothing was wrong. Of course, there was that teensy, little part of him that was just _ever_ so slightly aware of the possibility of danger, so he did make sure that he was never alone. Naturally, he had _business_ conducting a surprise inspection of Ironhide's supply warehouse, and he had a _right_ to move up his weekly strategy session with Silverbolt. It wasn't he was hiding behind these people. He was merely being efficient. And he was covering all of his bases.

Actually, he could even point out that he'd made quite a few convenient switches, moves which resulted in his having a fairly productive day. In fact, he found himself to be so engrossed in his work that, by the time the day had turned to late afternoon, he had (almost) forgotten the medic completely.

Which, as things turned out, was a bad idea. Because if Prowl thought, even in the back of his processor, that being in the company of another Autobot would somehow save him from the worst, he found out that no matter how well-laid his plans, he could still come face-to-face with the meaning of the word "backfired."

It was late in the day, near 1700 hours, when El Diablo strolled into the training bay where Prowl had been consulting with Sunstreaker regarding the Autobots' next training session. Sunstreaker, to everyone's utter shock, had turned out to be quite an effective combat instructor, and Prowl had come to consider the warrior's new assignment as one of his better "Sunstreaker solutions", even if he said so himself. In fact, Prowl even found that the warrior had good suggestions for this or that field strategy, and both warrior and tactician were deep in discussion over one of Sunstreaker's methods when the medic made his entrance.

Prowl took one look at the medic's face, and his first, knee-jerk thought was that he was glad he had another Autobot with him. But then he realized just exactly _who_ he was with, and with a horrible sinking sensation, Prowl knew at once that he was gloriously and spectacularly slagged.

So much for his brilliant plan.

But there was nothing for it now. Calmly, the medic strode across the floor, scanner in hand, while next to Prowl, Sunstreaker merely flung an elbow up over the top rail of the ring, and settled in to watch with a frosty smirk. Prowl stood rooted to the ground, a proverbial deer in the headlights, chevron-for-antlers and all.

As he approached, Ratchet raised a scanner and swept it up and down Prowl's frame. With a critical optic, he studied the results, mouth downturned before snapping the scanner shut with a definitive click. "Hm," the medic furrowed his brow, "no signs of cranial trauma."

"Excuse me?" Prowl managed.

Ratchet peered at him with a look of professional concern. "Are you functioning properly?"

"Of course I am."

"No recent blow to the head?"

"None."

"You're sure about this?" Ratchet was frowning, looking far from sure himself that Prowl hadn't had some catastrophic injury.

"I'm quite sure." Prowl raised his chin, even if his voice had been a little higher pitched than normal.

Like a stormcloud, the blue in Ratchet's optics began to brew toward indigo. "Then can you explain to me," he asked, his voice slowly rising, "what in the fonging name of Primus' _soggy parts_ you thought you were doing with _my personal property_?"

"Your personal --?"

"Don't," Ratchet barked, and jabbed a finger into Prowl's face, "play dumb with me."

"Ratchet," Prowl steeled himself, not sure whether he should attempt to reason with the medic, or if now would be a good time to run for his life, "I hardly think that Sideswipe considers himself to be your personal property."

Sunstreaker hitched a smile. "Hey, the doc can have him for all I care," he offered most unhelpfully. He appeared to be enjoying this immensely.

Ratchet continued to stare fixedly at Prowl.

Prowl drew himself up, his sense of reason (sadly for him) still winning out over his instinct to flee. "Look, Ratchet," he said, chin still high, "it is entirely within my rights to issue disciplinary acti--"

"Oh, it is?" Ratchet interrupted, optics glinting. "And when six weeks of twenty-four hour shifts result in Sideswipe being reduced to death on wheels, did you know that it's within my rights as Chief Medical Officer to let you know exactly how far up your six you can shove your rights?"

Prowl narrowed his optics. "Look, Ratchet, I am the executive officer of this unit--"

"I don't care if you're the grand admiral of the goat-sucking galaxy," Ratchet barked, completely ignoring anything Prowl might have to say. "You do NOT mess with _MY slagging Autobot_!"

"He does have a point, you know," Sunstreaker put in, a grin tugging at his features. "You did mess with his Autobot."

For a moment, Prowl stared at Sunstreaker, wondering whether he was kidding or not. Then, deciding it was best to just ignore the warrior, he turned back to the medic. "Listen, Ratchet," Prowl squared his shoulders, trying his very best to sound reasonable, "I know you feel a little proprietary about Sideswipe, but considering him your personal property is completely...well, it's preposterous. It's -- oh, for Primus' sake, Sideswipe does not _belong_ to you."

"Oh, I dunno," Sunstreaker said thoughtfully, mouth downturned slightly as he leaned against the ropes, "belonging to someone isn't all that bad."

"Oh, come on," Prowl threw up his hands, somewhere between panic (smart) and irritation (not smart), "you can't really be serious, Ratchet. Sideswipe is not actually _yours_."

Far from conceding, Ratchet merely stared down at Prowl, expression utterly flat.

Prowl was nonplussed. Did he really have to explain this? "The very --" he sputtered, at a total loss, "--the idea of ownership at _all_ is completely subjective. As if any of us actually creates matter, or proposes to take it with us when we die. It's feudalism, nothing more, with one fief lord after another inheriting what the last one left behind -- usually by force, I might add. It's idiotic."

He wasn't sure why he was launching into a debate. Maybe it was the realization stealing over him that he should have run like a pansy hours ago. Or maybe he just wasn't done being stubborn.

Either way, however, Ratchet was in no way buying it. He narrowed his optics, more than equally aggravated. "Don't you spew your ideological tripe at me, you son of a glitch," the medic growled. "I've rebuilt that slagging devil's son more times than you can imagine, so if I say he's mine, then you can damn well take your nobility and cram it with hex nuts."

"Well, now there you go threatening violence," Prowl pointed out, unable to let the subject drop, despite the overwhelming dread that was tingling like ants in his system. "It only proves my point that the notion of ownership ultimately boils down to whomever is brutal enough to claim it." He crossed his arms. "This conversation is merely history repeating itself."

Ratchet clenched his jaw, optics darkening visibly. "And your soon-to-be history is about to include my fist repeating itself into your face."

"But then you'd have to rebuild my face," Prowl inanely replied, logic his only flimsy weapon against an obviously impending doom. "Which rather defeats the original point of damaging my face in the first place."

"But if he rebuilt your face," Sunstreaker piped up, "then wouldn't your face sort of _belong_ to him? If we were following the feudal pattern you were talking about. With taking stuff by force and all that."

"That's not what I meant at all," Prowl snapped, increasingly less in control of his cool.

But Sunstreaker was still frowning to himself, and looking alarmingly as though he were having an actual thought process. "No, I think that's exactly what you meant. It's called getting owned. Or pwnd, I think the humans are calling it these days."

Prowl offered a scowl. "Well that's -- that's not even a _word_."

"It is now," Sunstreaker replied airily, and if Prowl hadn't very wisely (though extremely secretly) been ever so slightly afraid of Sunstreaker, he would have hauled off and kicked him then and there. "Anyway, all I'm saying is, if Ratchet says he owns Sideswipe, I don't think you're in a position to say otherwise, considering that he's bigger than you. According to your logic, anyway."

Prowl uttered an angry huff. "Well, of course _you_ would understand this in terms of violence."

"No, I think _you're_ the one interpreting this in terms of violence," Sunstreaker said with a completely straight face, which made Prowl suspect he was being serious. "_I'm_ saying there are different ways of belonging to someone."

"Look," Prowl spread his hands, while Ratchet looked on, apparently pleased at present to watch Sunstreaker bait Prowl into ball of snarling irritation, "you can't just say someone belongs to you."

"Sure you can," Sunstreaker countered. "Megatron does it all the time."

"But it's just --" Prowl fumed, flustered, "Just because Megatron _says_ it doesn't make it _true_."

Sunstreaker shrugged, infuriatingly undeterred from his line of thinking, "Didn't some rich bird say the pen is mightier than the sword or something?"

Prowl screwed up his face, his processor spinning through all possible explanations of what the yellow idiot had just said. "You mean Cardinal...Richelieu?" he asked finally.

Sunstreaker brightened. "That's the one. In that one play. He said that thing about the pen. Doesn't that mean being in a position to _say_ you own something mean you actually do? It's like possession being nine tenths of the law."

"How do you --" Prowl clenched his fists, the desire to choke the warrior increasing with each passing second, "-- how do you even _know_ that?"

Again, Sunstreaker shrugged. "Mirage was looking up entomology the other day. Sorry if I paid attention."

"Ento...hnnn." Prowl growled as he tried and failed to get ahold of himself. "_Ento_mology is the study of bugs. You mean _ety_mology, you twit."

Now it was Sunstreaker's turn to narrow his optics, and Prowl immediately realized his mistake. What had seconds ago been a desperately irrational attempt to philosophize his way out of Ratchet's Wrath had quite suddenly turned into something much worse. If there was anything more chilling than an irrational Ratchet, it was Sunstreaker in any state of having been offended.

For a long moment, the medic and the warrior regarded the tactician, Ratchet stewing on his ire, while Sunstreaker now offered a flat, cold stare.

"Look," Prowl said at length, smoothing his voice in an attempt to calm the situation, "all I'm saying is, you can't just walk in, conquer someone, and then spontaneously decide that you own him."

Ratchet eyed him beadily. "What about walking in, resurrecting someone from the fonging Land of the Primus-forsaken Dead, and then being pretty damn slagging sure I own his slagging aft?"

"Well that--" Prowl sputtered, desperately trying to inject some bit of reason, "that's just not -- you just can't own people, Ratchet. Period."

"Why not?" Sunstreaker snapped, being mulish now merely on principle.

"Well, it's not _nice_," Prowl tried failingly to explain, so far beyond flustered now he could actually hear himself frothing again. "It's not _NICE_," he repeated. "To own people." He was met again with blank stares. "It's -- it's completely asinine!"

"Well," Sunstreaker put in cooly, "I think that depends on your definition of ownership."

Prowl was all but raving now. "For the love of Primus, _how_ can it _possibly_ _ever_ be all right to _own_ someone?"

Sunstreaker was regarding him intently, lip out a bit, optics narrowed. "Well, Sideswipe is _my_ brother, for example. He's not yours. He's _mine_."

"No but -- no, see, that's not--nnng..." There was just no explaining the obvious to the simple. "You're being patently obtuse, just to annoy me."

"What?" Sunstreaker shot back, and at once Prowl took an involuntary step back. "What did you call me?"

"I --" the tactician faltered, as Sunstreaker's optics took on that glittery sort of light which always made Prowl feel as though the temperature had just dropped several degrees. Unable to think of what had tripped the yellow warrior's legendary temper, he asked simply, "You mean, uh, obtuse...?"

And then, too late, it clicked.

"I am..." Sunstreaker stepped forward, as Prowl backpedaled.

"No, no wait, I didn't..."

"...perfectly..." the warrior loomed closer, eloquent with malevolence.

"...didn't mean _that_ sort of obtuse..."

"..._symmetrical_."

Without another word, Prowl turned and fled. He never even made it to the door.

* * *

When Prowl awoke, the first thing he thought was that he didn't recall having shut himself down. Then, slowly, the sounds and smells of the medical bay began to register with his senses, and he thought foggily that he must have been in a battle, though he couldn't remember any recent enemy activity. Softly, the chorus of beeps and other such soothing sounds began to register around him, and as he drifted lazily toward consciousness, Prowl felt vaguely as though there was something he was forgetting, some alarming bit of trivia that was beginning to nag at the back of his processor. In fact, the more fully he came online, the more he realized that he was feeling less of his usual sense of security and relief at waking up in the medical bay, and more of a sense of absolute and utter dread.

And then, with a jolt, he remembered.

Lurching upward, he tried to scramble off of the table, but he banged his nose instead against what appeared to be thin air. Struggling, unsure why the ceiling should seem so far away, Prowl flailed for a moment at the invisible field around him, his feet making an odd crunching sound as he kicked at the enclosure. But before he could begin to truly consider panicking, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, accompanied by Ratchet's all-too-pleased tones.

"Ah, our patient awakes." The medic's smiling face loomed into view, and Prowl gave a start. The face before him was enormous, the nasty grin stretching wider than he could reach.

"What the --" the tactician stuttered, "--what did you do--?"

"Oh, nothing much," Ratchet waved a massive hand. "Here, let's just set you upright."

For a moment, the room spun madly around him, and then Prowl was standing inside of what he could see was a colorful sort of cell, with some kind of forcefield barrier before him. With a surge of anger, he slammed his fist into the barrier, making it buckle rather unexpectedly. "Let me out of here!" he demanded, surprised at how miniscule his voice sounded, and frankly a little alarmed at how feebly the barrier had crackled.

"Oh, but I can't," Ratchet widened his optics in mock regret. "You're not mine anymore."

"Not your _what_?" Prowl sputtered, with a horrible feeling that this could in on way bode well for him. "What are you talking about?"

Ratchet placed both massive hands on the surface outside of Prowl's cell, and at once Prowl recognized the top of the medic's work bench. "Well, you see," Ratchet explained, "the way I figure it, you obviously can't be trusted with borrowed property, so I simply saw fit to take back what was mine."

"What do you mean?" Prowl fumed, beginning to feel a creeping sense of foreboding. This was not good.

Seeming particularly pleased with himself, Ratchet explained, "Well, you see, I've just been through my logs, and do you know what I found? Interestingly enough, it seems that over the -- what has it been, centuries we've been a unit? -- over the _centuries_, after countless battles and subsequent repairs, I have actually rebuilt you several times over from the ground up. Yes." He paused to grin afresh, positively giddy with himself now. "There wasn't one original part in your body."

"And?" Prowl crossed his arms as he tried vainly to ignore the medic's use of the word 'wasn't'.

"Aaand, so I took them all back," Ratchet stated simply, as if this were the most natural solution in the universe.

"You...what?" Prowl blurted.

"Here," Ratchet held up a finger as he rummaged around underneath the table top, and came up with a mirror. "You can see for yourself."

Prowl stared at his reflection for a full ten seconds. It was all he could do. He looked exactly the same, everything, down to the last detail, except...

"I'm plastic!" Prowl cried in horror or rage or both, and actually grabbed his chevrons in both fists, absolutely beside himself. "What have you done to me?"

"Oh, I haven't done anything to _you_," Ratchet corrected him as he stowed the mirror back under the table. "You have your spark. I figure that's about what you have left that's actually _yours_."

"But -- I -- you can't --"

"Oh, but I can," the medic leaned his elbows on the table, his wicked grin looming closer now. "I can, and I did. You see," he said, and began ticking points off on one hand, "the labor, which you never paid for, was all mine. The parts were mostly Ironhide's since he's head of supply. And then there were some of the more sensitive and essential components, which ultimately came from the CRO..."

"The CRO?" Prowl all but screeched, still gripping his chevrons in both fists, as though he might just rip them off.

"Yes, the Clandestine Relations Officer--"

"Yes, I _know_ who the CRO is!" Prowl raged. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Well you did ask," Ratchet shrugged, so very mightily and horrifically pleased. "And anyway, I'd say he has just about everything to do with this now, since the body you currently occupy was supplied by him. I mean," the medic spread his hands, "you had no parts left, so the CRO generously donated a Prowl Action Figure. I hear the humans have some pretty good toys of us now. I had to make a few modifications, of course..."

"You -- what you -- _I'm in a toy_?" Prowl frothed.

"You are in a toy," Ratchet confirmed, beaming like ten thousand watts of evil. "Which belongs to the CRO. It's only on loan, you know, so I'd actually say that _you_ belong to the CRO now."

"But," Prowl was all but raving now, "but that's _SIDESWIPE_!"

"Oh yes I know," Ratchet replied, positively jubilant. "He really is good at his job, too. Just last week he --"

Now Prowl was _actually_ seeing red. "_I do not belong to SIDESWIPE_!"

"As a matter of fact, you don't," Ratchet reassured him with a most un-reassuring smile. Glancing at a the clock, he said, "Or well, in about three minutes and twenty-seven seconds you won't. I think you're going to one Jerome Nelson, of Destin, Florida -- unless someone swoops him of course."

"Swoops...you can't mean --" Prowl's head was spinning. "_You sold me on EBAY_?"

"No, _Sideswipe_ sold you on Ebay," Ratchet grinned, optics positively sparkling. "I hear he got a lot of money for you, too. Walking, talking toys generate a lot of interest among netboys, or so I hear. Jerome will be so pleased."

Prowl was nearly non-verbal, he was so enraged. "You let me out of here!" he raged, slamming his plastic fists uselessly against the plastic box. "This is not funny! I am taking this _straight to Prime_!"

"Oh, that," Ratchet waved the threat away. "Yeah...you see, there's a gag on anyone reporting underground activity at the moment. Apparently we're low on some sensitive supplies right now, and Prime's issued an order to look the other way on any and all, shall we say, shady trading. All CRO activity has been given the green light."

"What order?" Prowl demanded, and gave the box another futile kick.

"Well, it came out this morning." Ratchet replied, optics wide. "Didn't you get it?"

"I was _OFFLINE_," Prowl snarled.

"Oh, well, too bad," the medic shrugged. "Either way, _legally_, I can't even turn myself in for this." He smiled, ever so nicely. "So I guess it's off to the CRO with you."

With that, Ratchet leaned down to pick up Prowl's box, and the tactician lurched as the floor heaved beneath him before he was hurled against the wall. Pummeling his fists against the cardboard, he roared, "You let me out of here RIGHT NOW!"

"No can do," Ratchet tucked the box under his massive arm, and Prowl had to hold on for balance while the giant medic made his way out toward the hall.

"You're insane," Prowl ranted, one hand on the wall for balance, one hand on his forehead as they made their way down the hall. "You're completely, utterly insane. Primus almighty, you have a slagging Primus complex..."

Ratchet shrugged, jostling the box. "Or maybe Primus has a Ratchet complex." Prowl could hear the grin from above. "You ever think of that?"

"That's blasphemy." Prowl didn't even know why he said it. He was so mad he was starting to feel numb.

"Yeah, well, so's this Primus-fonging, mother-slagging war," Ratchet replied reasonably. "Now off you go to shipping. By now, Jerome's won himself a new action figure."

* * *

Sunk deep into the couch, feet up on the ottoman, and one arm slung over the back, Sunstreaker was watching Knight Rider when Sideswipe walked in. "Wanna watch?" he asked, not bothering to take his optics off of the screen.

Looking as pleased as pie, Sideswipe threw himself down next to his brother. "You know," he said, "funny thing. I find myself suddenly with all of this free time. What is a mech to do?"

Quirking a half-grin, Sunstreaker asked, "How's Jerome?"

"Ah, pissed I'm sure," Sideswipe laced his fingers behind his head, and heaved a sigh of deep satisfaction. He really was looking better now that Ratchet had fixed him up. "He got swooped. Some guy named Juarez outside of East LA. But such is life, and all's well that ends well and all that."

"And by 'all' being well, you mean..." Sunstreaker raised both metal brows.

"Oh, I mean me, clearly." Sideswipe returned a nice grin. "Prowl's slag outta luck though."

"Oh well," Sunstreaker made himself comfortable, "he'll think of something. Fine tactical genius and all that."

"That's the spirit."

Sunstreaker watched KITT fly over yet another strut-wrenching obstacle, and he wondered just how many stunt cars they went through filming this stuff. It was brutal. "So," he asked, when the chase scene was done, "how'd you end up Ratchet's pet anyway?'

"Simple," Sideswipe replied without skipping a beat, "I'm exceptionally charming."

Sunstreaker fought down the gag reflex.

"Also," Sideswipe pointed out cheerily, "Primus likes us."

Sunstreaker knitted his brow. "You know," he mused, "for two mechs destined for the Inferno, Primus sure does smile on us a lot."

"Ah," Sideswipe explained, "that, my brotabulous bro, is because the Almighty has a sense of humor."

Sunstreaker raised a metal brow. "Yes, he did make us after all."

"Exactly my point," Sideswipe grinned widely, "which only leads me to conclude that our primary mission is to keep him entertained."

Slowly, Sunstreaker's smile crept into a rather jackal-like grin. "Well, if that's how it is, I might just feel a bit of piety coming on."

"Ah, verily, verily." Sideswipe genuflected, or at least he made some vaguely similar gesture.

Settling back with a smirk, Sunstreaker wondered if Prowl was busy petitioning the heavens, or if he was simply using the ride to LA to come up with a plan to get back to the Ark and murder Sideswipe for good.

Probably plan B. But it didn't matter, because some punishments were worth it, and besides, there was just nothing quite like seeing Prowl get _owned_.


	4. Round 4

**Round 4**

The package was ominously quiet.

Around them, the dank hold of the lower storage room swam in semi-darkness, the dusty rows of the Autobots' backup and emergency supplies standing like sentries around the little makeshift medical bay Jazz and Wheeljack had carved out of the center of the room. Tools, monitors and parts were heaped to one side in typical Wheeljack-haphazard fashion, while in the center, there was an operating table with the inert form of Prowl's body-shell, which Jazz had managed to finagle back from Ironhide. And there, propped rather ignobly on a makeshift crate-table, was a little brown package addressed to one A. Juarez of East LA. And it wasn't making a sound.

"You sure he's in there?" Wheeljack whispered, his voice barely carrying in the gloom as half-hovered, half-huddled near Jazz's left elbow, as though waiting for some kind of explosion.

"Yeah..." Jazz reached out, then resisted the urge to poke the box. It had been perfectly, chillingly quiet ever since he'd picked it up from the East LA Post Office early that morning. He'd thought about opening it right away, but there was something a little foreboding about it, something a bit menacing about the thick silence, and instead he'd opted to wait until he got back up the coastline and into the Ark. Jazz was no coward - in fact, he was all but unflappable in most situations - but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate a little backup now and again. "Yeah," he nodded, steeling himself against the waves of Seething Tactician that were emanating from the box, "he's in there all right."

Wheeljack frowned behind the mask, little lines of worry showing between his optics as he all but wrung his hands. "He knows I had nothing to do with this, right?"

"Oh, I'll make sure he knows if he don't already," Jazz assured the engineer.

"It was Ratchet all the way," Wheeljack pressed the point, clearly more than willing to throw his best friend under this particular bus.

Jazz patted the fretting engineer's shoulder. "No worries, man, it'll be Sides he's after anyway. Jus' stay away from ground zero, an' you'll be safe an' sound."

"Yeah..." Wheeljack fidgeted, not looking entirely convinced.

"I'm telling you man, no worries. Besides," Jazz added, and offered a watery grin, "we gotta get some points for savin' him, right?"

"Right..." Wheeljack looked even less convinced, and Jazz granted that he had a point. There were few Autobots scarier than a peeved Prowl, and the mood the tactician was in right now could probably be most closely described as volcanic, if Jazz knew him at all. In fact, he was secretly wondering if he and Wheeljack might not be better off opening the box behind a blast shield. Prowl had a mean streak a mile wide, and right now, he was more than just a little pissed.

"So..." Jazz spoke up after they'd been cringing long enough, "...think we oughta stop bein' chickens an' get on with it?"

Wheeljack actually took half a step back. "Uh, sure. You go ahead."

Jazz really didn't blame the engineer, though he noted it was a bit drastic that Wheeljack of all people would suddenly become hazard-conscious. But there was nothing for it but to get this over with, so with a bit of a sigh Jazz steeled himself and began to carefully peel back the packing tape.

It was a pretty good packing job, one designed to keep the now-miniscule Prowl from breaking out, and Jazz had a time of getting the box open without jostling (and therefore further angering) the contents too much. But at length he managed it, and as he pulled back the flap, he poked a cautious visor over the top.

At the bottom of the package, Prowl merely stood glaring at the wall. Back ramrod straight, arms crossed, door wings bristling, he ignored Jazz completely as he stared a hole in the cardboard wall.

"Heh...uh...hi, Prowl," Jazz offered weakly.

Prowl, face set, simply stood and stared.

"Do you, uh, need some help outta -?"

"Touch me and die," the tactician snapped, and Jazz did his very best not to crack a grin at the diminutive sound of his superior's voice.

"Uh you...ok, maybe I'll just...tip the box...?" Jazz offered, and began to slowly and gently turn the box over so the tactician could slide himself out without having to suffer the indignity of being mech-handled.

With some surprising amount of grace, Prowl steadied himself while the walls of his packaging became the floor, and when the opening was on the level, he strode out onto the top of the crate, where he stood staring ice and daggers at Wheeljack and Jazz.

"I had nothing to do with it," Wheeljack blurted, and took a half-step behind Jazz.

"Indeed," Prowl replied, and slid a cold stare in Jazz's direction. "And where...might I ask...is Jerome?"

"Yeah, Jerome..." Jazz offered a smile, and at the frigid reception, dropped his expression back into something more melancholy. "I, uh, swooped him. On eBay. Used a fake name - paid a lotta cash for you too..."

He trailed off as Prowl, expression still cold, marched around to the side of the box to read the packing slip. "I presume you to be 'A. Juarez'?"

"Yeah, " Jazz offered another weak grin, then dropped it just as quickly when Prowl slid him a stony stare. "You know...Autobot Jazz, 'A. Juarez'. My, uh, online alias, makes things easier to get around Sideswipe..."

At the mention of the Public Enemy Number One, Prowl's optics actually flared white, and Jazz trailed off into a sort of half-hearted mumble. The Head of Special Operations wasn't usually so easily cowed, but Jazz hadn't spent the last few thousand years as Prowl's best friend not to know just exactly how nasty the tactician could be when properly aggravated. Which was exactly what he was now, given Sideswipe's (and Ratchet's) little stunt, and Jazz was betting that whatever Prowl did next wasn't going to be pretty. And Jazz was in no way going to be in the way of that particular line of fire.

For a long, arctic moment, Prowl regarded the pair before him. Then, his expression still unchanged, he said, "Give me a communicator."

"But, uh, don't you think we should get you fixed fir-"

"NOW."

Jazz and Wheeljack actually bumped into one another on their way to comply. Every room had a communications panel, and Wheeljack himself had installed some human-sized comm sets in each panel, not that Jazz was sure how Prowl planned to use something even that big. Fumbling the set between them, eventually Jazz got ahold of the thing, and both Autobots raced back to where Prowl stood on top of the crate. Gingerly, Jazz handed the piece over, and stepped back to watch.

In any other situation, it would have been a bit comical to watch Prowl dial the oversized buttons on a comm piece as big as he was, but somehow Jazz found the personal fortitude not to laugh. Utterly serene, his face like stone, Prowl patiently pushed the numbers one by one, and when he finally got on the line, he stood between the speaker and receiver, arms crossed while he waited.

_Portland police department, is this an emergency?_

"No," Prowl replied calmly.

_Please hold._

Arms still crossed, the minuscule tactician waited patiently while he was transferred. Jazz and Wheeljack exchanged glances, but as neither one of them was stupid enough to ask what Prowl was doing, they merely settled in to watch.

At length, another voice spoke up._ Portland police department, how can I help you?_

"Yes," Prowl replied, "I want to make an anonymous report about some illegal activity."

_Ok, go ahead._

"I have to keep this anonymous," Prowl stressed, managing to put some concern into his voice. "You have to promise me no one will find out I called you."

_You don't have to identify yourself at any time, sir_, the voice assured him.

"Ok, well, I know you're not going to believe me, but..." Prowl paused, and managed to dredge up the tiniest note of fear in his voice, "...I think I know someone who's selling...people...on eBay."

Jazz and Wheeljack exchanged another look. This could in no way be good, and Jazz wondered what Prowl thought he was doing involving the police in this.

_You mean as in human trafficking? _the voice on the other end asked.

"I mean selling people," Prowl reiterated, his voice now taking a convincing note of anxiety. "I...I don't know how to say this, but I saw a couple of guys drug another guy, put him in a box, and take it to the post office."

_Really. _The voice didn't sound entirely convinced.

"Yeah," Prowl uttered a mock sigh, "I knew you wouldn't believe me. But I know what I saw. They had this guy all tied up, and...I don't know who he was, but..." He paused again for effect, and uttered another tremulous sigh. "I mean...I wasn't going to call, but I got to thinking, what if this is real? And, what if there's some poor guy out there, being, you know, sold? What if he needs help?"

That seemed to do the trick. _You mean to say you saw this individual shipped through the postal system, and at this time you don't know of his whereabouts?_

"Yeah," Prowl answered. "He could be anywhere. I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but doesn't this...this selling people thing...doesn't it happen to people? I know it happens in other countries, but...doesn't it happen here too? I'm sorry, I'm sorta freaked out here."

He was really laying it on thick now, and it seemed to be working like a charm. _When did this incident occur?_

"Two days ago," Prowl answered.

There was a pause, then, _You waited two days to make this report?_

"Well," Prowl replied, "I didn't think anyone would believe me. I mean, it's crazy, right? But, I can't sleep worrying about this, and I just thought, you know, on the off chance that they're really selling people on eBay, well, I had to call."

_Ok, I see. Can you tell me where the person was allegedly shipped?_

"No, that part I don't know," Prowl replied. "But I know the user name of the guy who made the sale."

_And that is?_

"SuhWeetRide99. That's all I know."

_No other information on this person?_

"No, just his eBay name. I..." Prowl paused, and though his expression remained flat, he managed to work a fearful little tremor into his voice again. "..I know this guy. I just know if I give you his name, he'll know it was me. I hope his eBay name is enough, because I can't have him coming after me."

There was a pause, then, _Ok, we'll look into it. Thanks for the call._

"Thanks for looking into this. I'll sleep better knowing you are."

_No problem sir. We'll check this out. Have a good day._

There was a click, and Prowl stepped back from the comm link, looking suddenly and decidedly brisk. "Jazz," he ordered, before Jazz or Wheeljack could get a word in edgewise, "go erase all trace of your eBay alias. Now. Get rid of your post office box, too. Leave enough tracks so they can see you cleared out in a hurry, but don't leave a trail back to you."

"Easily 'nuff done," Jazz frowned. "But uh, Prowl -"

"That wasn't a request," Prowl snapped, apparently in no mood to explain himself, "so get going. Now you," he turned his still rather chilly gaze toward Wheeljack, "I presume you're here to fix me?"

"Yeah, we got the setup all ready," Wheeljack nodded, and gestured at the prepped body.

"Then get a move on," Prowl ordered, and though the tactician's arms remained firmly crossed, Jazz thought he detected the beginnings of a diabolical smile. "And don't be all day about it, either," Prowl's added, optics glittering in the gloom, "I have things to do."

* * *

Erasing his alias took hardly any time at all, and Jazz was back in time to watch Wheeljack run the last of the diagnostics before bringing Prowl online. Only he and Wheeljack knew about this, and if you counted Sideswipe, Sunstreaker and Ratchet, that made five people total who even knew this whole thing had happened, which was exactly how Jazz wanted to keep things. Prowl's pride had taken a serious blow over being miniaturized and actually sold at online auction, something which contributed, he was sure, to the tactician's rather severe lack of gratitude over being rescued. He was grateful in his way, Jazz was sure, but he doubted that the tactician would be writing flowery odes to him or Wheeljack anytime soon; he was just too embarrassed at being gotten so good.

Not that being embarrassed kept Prowl paralyzed for long. Jazz had known him too long, and had seen him in action too many times not to know that payback was a particular specialty of Prowl's. Very few truly got into it with the tactician (Sideswipe being one of a very select dumb and/or ballsy enough to do so), and from Jazz's experience, even fewer walked away the victor. Sideswipe was good, not to mention well connected, and pretty slagging inventive to have come up with what he did. But Prowl was Prowl after all, and when the slag really hit the fan, Jazz knew Sideswipe better be running.

"So...you jus' about done?" Jazz asked as he watched Wheeljack re-run a final test, obviously prolonging the inevitable.

"Yeah...he's in perfect working order." the engineer watched the test resolve with zero errors, and looked up at Jazz with a bit of a rueful expression. "Suppose we should give Sideswipe a head start before I wake him up?"

Jazz sighed and offered a sorrowful look in return. "Nah man, won't do him no good." He nodded at the inert form of the tactician, now fully restored and fully peeved. "You know he's gonna get poor Siders no matter how far he runs."

Wheeljack brought up the restart command sequence, then let his hand hover a moment. "You won't tell Ratchet I helped you, right?"

"Nope," Jazz reassured the engineer. He'd had a time convincing Wheeljack to get involved in this at all. Between his best friend Dr. Evil, and the soon-to-be rampaging Tactician of Doom, Wheeljack was in a tight spot no matter who he helped. "You were never here, far as El Diablo is concerned, and I'm sure Prowl knows you're only helpin'. You're cool man."

"Ooookay," Wheeljack sighed, and with a visible wince, restarted the tactician's systems.

It only took a few seconds for him to come online, and when he did, he sat up with a smooth motion, swung his legs over the side of the table, and without a word to either of them, quit the room.

"Damn." Jazz couldn't help himself. Prowl was in one helluva mood.

"Yeah..." Wheeljack followed the tactician's retreating back with his optics, then busied himself with cleaning up the operating theater. "I think you better follow him."

"I think you're right," Jazz allowed, and began to make his way (though admittedly at a safe distance) after his friend. "Thanks again, Wheeljack," he tossed a grin over his shoulder, but it went unnoticed as the engineer practically buried himself like an ostrich among the boxes of medical gear.

* * *

Hurrying to catch up, Jazz trotted after the tactician who, when he finally located him, was stalking down the halls of the Ark like a ferocious gale. Optics narrowed, Prowl didn't even break stride as he plowed through a throng of minibots, and Jazz had to stop himself from tripping over Brawn, steady himself apologetically against a flattened Windcharger, and leap over a fallen Huffer just to keep up with the rampaging XO.

"Uh, Prowl," Jazz started breathlessly, when he'd finally caught up again, "don't you think -"

"No."

"But involving the police-"

"No."

"Isn't this a bit drastic?"

"No."

"Prowl -" Jazz tried, wondering if he might not have been better off to warn poor Sideswipe after all, but Prowl was clearly in no mood to hear reason, and it probably wouldn't have done Sideswipe a bit of good to run anyway. Prowl, it was obvious, was out for blood.

Pivoting smartly away from Jazz, Prowl turned and strode down the hall toward the command center, where Jazz could just make out the sounds of an increasingly hysterical argument.

"If these allegations are true," Prime's voice thundered down the hall, "do you have any idea how deep I'm going to bury you?"

"But I told you," Sideswipe's voice countered, sounding somewhere between angry and alarmed, "I don't know what they're talking about."

"Like hell you don't," Prime hollered, his temper having already clearly escalated the situation from a question-and-answer session to a full-on shouting match. "I've had it up to my stacks with your monkeyshines even without a phone call from the slagging FBI. Do you have any idea how this makes us look? _Do you_?"

Prime was clearly losing it, not that Jazz blamed him, since Sideswipe's presence in general was about as soothing as a piledriver to the head. Human relations were sacred to Prime, and if he thought Sideswipe was jeopardizing that, Jazz had no doubt the Autobot commander would open up a volcano and throw the warrior in head-first. "But Prime," the warrior was saying, "I told you -"

"You've very cleverly told me nothing!" the commander roared as both Jazz and Prowl finally rounded the corner and made their entrance. Fists balled, face contorted, Prime loomed over the red warrior in what promised to be only the beginnings of a truly spectacular rage. Before him, arms crossed, Sideswipe had coiled himself into a defensive stance, and though his face hovered somewhere between defiance and growing alarm, Jazz had to give him credit for standing his ground in the face of Prime's brewing wrath. All that crumbled, however, at the sight of Prowl. As the tactician swept into the room, Sideswipe's optics flew wide as hubcaps, and whatever retort he might have offered Prime merely faded into a sort of sickly, slack-jawed expression. He clearly hadn't expected to see his nemesis back so soon.

For a moment, the two stood staring at one another, Sideswipe like a deer in the headlights, Prowl's face smooth as ice. The silence was deafening.

"Sideswipe," Prowl greeted the warrior cooly after the silence had carried on.

Sideswipe attempted a reply, but all that came out was a rather undignified squeak.

Still fuming, Prime shifted his gaze from the warrior to the tactician, who he glared at for what seemed like a full minute before schooling himself to a more reasonable volume. "Prowl," he managed in clipped tones. "Finally. Ratchet said you were down for repairs."

It seemed Ratchet had come up with a cover story for Prowl's absence, and Jazz mentally gave him credit, not that it would do him any good if Prowl decided to add the medic to his hit list. (On the other hand, Ratchet was possibly the scariest Autobot alive, and Jazz wasn't sure if Prowl's audacity extended itself quite that far, even with the mood he was in.) "Yes," Prowl replied smoothly. "But I'm better now." He offered a ghost of a smile in Sideswipe's direction. "Much better."

Still frozen, Sideswipe regarded the tactician beadily. Caught between the fuming (not to mention very large) commander and the wintery tactician, Jazz could tell Sideswipe was being painted into a very unpleasant corner. No one in the room knew what Prowl was playing at, and with Optimus Prime now very decidedly and wholeheartedly in the Kill Sideswipe Camp, Jazz could see that the poor warrior's options were few. He could run, (and from the warrior's stance, Jazz thought Siders might just be seriously considering that course of action), but he ultimately couldn't hide, and as this realization sank in, Jazz could see that Sideswipe was beginning to slide into a mild panic. He really was about to be fantastically screwed, and he knew it.

"Fine," Prime crossed his arms, apparently oblivious to the entire situation, much to Jazz's relief. He wasn't sure what Prowl was up to, but if Prime became involved at this point, particularly considering his present mood, Jazz was pretty sure they'd be burying Sideswipe by sunset. "Now what do you know about this?"

Shifting his gaze calmly to the warrior, Prowl addressed the commander, "I have a fair idea of what's going on. However," he slid his gaze back to Prime, his face unreadable, "I think it best if Sideswipe spend some time in the brig while we sort this out."

"Granted," Prime growled, and glared in Sideswipe's direction, obviously thrilled to be rid of him for five minutes running. "Sideswipe," he ordered, "report to the brig immediately and rot there until further notice. Ironhide," he barked into the communicator, "prepare to receive Sideswipe as your newest and most honored guest."

The comm link crackled to life, and Ironhide's easy drawl rolled over the airwaves. "Roger that, Prime. Dare ah ask what he done this time?"

"No," Prime, replied tersely. "Prime out. Prowl," he addressed the tactician who, Jazz noted, was slowly starting to give off subtle waves of self-satisfaction, "do you need anything else from _this_ one?" Prime indicated Sideswipe with a jerk of his head.

"No," Prowl replied, face mild, though his voice held a dangerously happy undercurrent. "Not at this time."

"Fine," Prime crossed his arms, "Sideswipe...OUT."

The poor warrior didn't need to be told twice, and with a final furtive glance in Prowl's direction, slunk from the room. Whatever came next, Jazz truly pitied him. Leaning in toward Prowl's audio while Prime glared after the red mech, he muttered, "Man, you gonna leave him alive, right?" Ignoring Jazz completely, Prowl made no reply, and Jazz wondered for the second time that day if he shouldn't have given poor Siders a head start.

"Now," Prime addressed his XO again, after he'd gotten done glaring a hole in Sideswipe's backside, "what the hell is this about? Do you realize I've had two calls form the Portland police department, and a call from the FBI? They say Sideswipe is involved -"

"Yes, Prime," Prowl broke in smoothly, "I'm aware of the charges. However, I have reason to suspect that someone is simply playing a prank on Sideswipe."

"But -"

"Don't ask how," Prowl forestalled the commander's question, while Jazz did his very best not to drop his jaw. "I simply have reason to think that this might just be someone's idea of a joke."

Prime furrowed his brow. "How the hell is that possible? They're saying he's been involved in human trafficking for Primus' sake, and I have reports giving good evidence. The recipient of his last shipment -" he glanced down at a datapad, "A. Juarez - cleared out any trace of his identity online and at the post office just an hour ago. No one can track this guy down, it's possible there's some kidnapped person in a crate somewhere, and I have the FBI breathing down my neck trying to point the finger at one of mine. Prowl, if an Autobot were actually involved in something like this, you realize -"

"Prime," Prowl held up a hand, voice calmly placating (though with the merest air of longsuffering), "please. Becoming emotional isn't going to help, and anyway, consider the evidence. Does this really sound like Sideswipe?"

Behind the visor, Jazz blinked.

Before Prime could answer (and in fact Jazz suspected it was a good idea cutting the commander off, since Sideswipe _had_ actually attempted to sell Cliffjumper once), Prowl said, "I have very good reason to think that this entire affair is merely someone's rather poor attempt at payback."

Prime looked simply nonplussed. "Payback," he repeated, and looked as though he were halfway toward calming down, and halfway toward an entirely new and different tirade. "What sort of...payback?"

Prowl uttered one of his patented little patronizing sighs. "I cannot go into detail, because the individual in question has asked me to keep this incident confidential. However, it seems," the tactician explained, "that Sideswipe did in fact ship another Autobot through the postal system as a prank. That individual then felt the need to retaliate by reporting the incident to the human police. It seems he thought he could 'really get Sideswipe back' so to speak, by doing this."

"Indeed." Prime seemed seriously not impressed. However, he did look ever so slightly less murderous, which Jazz took as a sign that he wouldn't have to duck and cover anytime soon. "So...this is all an internal affair. No humans were involved."

"Precisely," Prowl nodded. "Of course I wish the police hadn't been involved, and you may trust me that I have conveyed this wish to the particular individual involved, but I do believe that this is something we can handle in-house."

Prime was looking noticeably calmer at this news, and already his temper was fading from volcanic to mere disgruntlement. Rubbing a thumb and forefinger between his optics, he uttered and sharp sigh, and said, "Fine. Since you're already involved, would you call the police back and explain the situation?"

"Of course," Prowl nodded, face smooth.

"And for Primus' sake, get the Feds off of our backs," Prime grumbled. "The last thing we need is some sort of federal investigation." Jazz seconded that notion, since he figured any such investigation would end up with Sideswipe's carcass being smelted down for oil pans.

"That shouldn't be a problem," Prowl replied.

"Fine," Prime spread his hands, still visibly cooling himself as he made his way toward the door. "I have things to do that do _not_ involve prank calls to the police _or_ shipping personnel through the postal system, so I'm going to leave this in your hands. But I want a report by the end of the day."

"Understood," Prowl nodded, perfectly composed.

"Good," Prime grumbled, then paused in the doorway. "Oh, and Prowl?"

"Yes, Prime?"

The commander narrowed his optics, obviously still thoroughly peeved. "Kill Sideswipe for me."

At that, Prowl merely offered the ghost of a smile. "Yes, Prime."

Then Optimus Prime, and Sideswipe's last feeble hope for a defense, was gone.

* * *

"You're gonna kill him, aren't you?" Jazz asked as soon as the commander was gone.

Ignoring the saboteur completely, Prowl dialed the number left by the federal agent, and waited for a connection on the other end. Serenely composed, door panels held in that easy sort of way that told Jazz of Prowl's extreme self-satisfaction, the tactician looked frighteningly like the cat who ate the canary.

Abruptly, the agent's face appeared on the line, then disappeared as he could be heard fumbling with the equipment. A few moments of swearing went by, after which a fairly disgruntled, black-suited man appeared sideways, then right-side-up as he adjusted the camera. "About damn time," he snapped without so much as a hello, and scrubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair. "I've been waiting for almost an hour, and thank-you-very-much for the damned useless instructions you supplied with this vid-cam. Who wrote these, anyway?"

"That would be our chief engineer," Prowl replied smoothly, his cheshire expression having resolved into his more usual placid countenance.

"Well you can tell him his technical writing skills suck," the man retorted, clearly in a tetchy mood.

"I'll make a note," Prowl answered, completely straight-faced, while the man rummaged through the piles of paperwork on his desk.

"Now," the human said, as he extracted a rather thick file from the mess, "I'm Agent Collins, I hate being kept waiting, and who," he slapped the file down before the camera, "the hell are you?"

"My name is Prowl," the tactician replied, quite unfazed by the agent's posturing, "and I am the executive officer of the Autobots' Earth-side unit. I am also the head of regulation," and at this, he fanned his doors ever so slightly so as to show off the bold, white "POLICE" lettering, "and I have been asked by Optimus Prime to cooperate fully with your investigation."

"Smooth," Jazz muttered, making sure to keep off-camera. Predictably, Prowl ignored him.

Eyes flicking toward Prowl's door panels, the agent hesitated a fraction, then leaned forward on his elbows. "Look," he said, uttering a short, sharp sigh, "I put a call in to you people over a half hour ago, and for all I know, there's some poor _human_ locked in a crate somewhere thanks to, uh," he thumbed the file, "a Side Swipe? So if you wanna go ahead and tell me what this is all about before I expire - or before this guy dies of oxygen deprivation - that'd be just swell."

"I understand your concern, and I apologize for the delay," Prowl put in smoothly. "However, there is no cause for alarm, as I have reason to believe that this is nothing more than a prank."

Collins looked less than amused. "A prank," he said, voice completely deadpanned.

"That is correct," Prowl nodded. "If I may explain?"

"Oh, do tell," the agent leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

"In short," Prowl said, "the Autobot in question - Sideswipe - did in fact ship someone through the postal system as a prank. However, this person was another Autobot, not a human. In retaliation for this prank, this Autobot then called the police, hoping to get Sideswipe into trouble."

"Well," Collins snorted, "you can give him points for that. It worked. According to the shipping logs, your pal Side Swipe shipped your other pal across state lines - which of course lands the case with us." Leaning forward again, the human tapped the file before him with a forefinger. "And after drawing the file on this Swipe character, I'd say he makes for some interesting reading. Are you aware of the sheer volume of his trading activities? His net worth alone is..." Collins uttered a derisive laugh, "...well, let's just say if I were in his shoes, I'd be driving a Lamborghini, too."

At this, Prowl offered a wan smile. "Yes, I am aware."

"Of course, nothing illegal that I see," Collins frowned at the papers before him, "but it's probably worth looking into." Flipping the file closed again, he looked back up at the camera. "Ok, so it was a prank. Then how do you explain this Juarez character who cleared out his post office box all of a sudden?"

"Ah," Prowl nodded slightly, "another Autobot. Apparently he was in on this 'prank' as well, and did not wish for me to discover his involvement. You can rest assured, however, I will be dealing with him as well."

"You will?" Jazz mouthed, scowling from off-camera. See if Jazz stuck his neck out for Prowl again anytime soon, the bastard.

"Fine," Collins said, while Prowl continued to ignore the saboteur. "Now, what's to prevent me from coming out to your location and conducting my own investigation, just to make sure you aren't covering something up for your buddies?"

"Absolutely nothing," Prowl answered mildly. "I have been given instructions to cooperate with you fully. When may I expect your arrival?"

Frowning, Collins stared into the camera, finger tapping again on the file in front of him, and it was suddenly quite clear that he had no actual wish to look into this any further. From the mess on his desk, Jazz could tell that he probably had much bigger fish to fry than some giant alien robot and his infantile pranking activities. Eyes narrowed, he opened his mouth for a moment, paused, then said, "You claim to be the head of regulation, uh..."

"Prowl", the tactician supplied when Collins had paused too long.

"Prowl, right." Sifting through the stack before him, he came up with another file, this one much thinner. "Prowl..." he repeated, running his finger down a list that Jazz couldn't quite make out. "Ah. Seems you've worked with us personally a few times. My apologies for not recognizing you on sight. They ought to include a head shot with these."

"Not at all," Prowl nodded graciously. "I have in fact worked closely with several members of your organization. If you require validation, however, I will certainly make arrangements for any number of your agents-"

"Right," Collins cut the tactician off, and sounding as though he'd come to some internal decision. Flipping the the file shut, he fixed Prowl with a look, and uttered a short, sharp sigh. "Look, I'm gonna look into this on my end, make sure there's nothing else that raises a red flag. But considering your history with us, I assume that you can handle going through this -" he thumbed Sideswipe's file with some disgust "-yourself?"

Prowl offered another gracious nod. "If that will be of assistance to you, I will certainly be happy to look over Sideswipe's file, and send a report first thing in the morning."

"It's not like we're up to our eyeballs in real cases here," Collins put in, his tone growing tetchy now that he was obviously talking himself out of doing any real work. By regulation, Jazz assumed that the FBI should at least send _someone_ out to investigate. But considering that just two months back, Prowl had supplied key logistical information that had enabled the FBI to capture a serial killer, Jazz figured Prowl had won at least a little bit of trust. Sure, the FBI should assume that Prowl _could_ be covering up for somebody. But there was something a bit frosty about the tactician, something just humorless enough that, in a bizarre twist, inspired a certain feeling of confidence. In short, no one as boring as Prowl could possibly be untrustworthy, and Jazz had to admit that there was some truth to that kind of thinking. But then, that was the beauty of the tactican - he engendered so much trust that when he finally did go on the offensive, you just plain never saw it coming.

"Of course," Prowl was saying, his voice as smooth as ever. "Again, please accept my apologies on behalf of myself and Optimus Prime. I'm sure you have more pressing matters than pranks to deal with."

"Fine," Collins nodded, and turned briefly to the side as he tapped something into his computer. "I'm sending the file to you now. I'll have a glance on my end, but I'll want a thorough report from you first thing tomorrow, or I'm sending someone out there." He turned to face the camera again, adding, "Don't think your unit is immune to local law, just because you're not from our planet. If this "prank" of yours turns out to have any truth to it..."

"Then you will be the first to know," Prowl replied evenly. "Though if you truly lack confidence in my personal attentions in the matter, you or any of your agents are welcome at the Ark, day or night. In fact, I can make arrangements now if you-"

"No, no, it won't be necessary," Collins backpedalled at once, clearly in no frame of mind to give this any more attention than he had already. Prowl had just enough of a personal reputation with the Bureau, and judging by the mess of the human's desk, Collins had enough work already to warrant leaving the entire thing in the Autobot's hands. "Look, just give this file a good going-over, and let me know what you find."

"Of course," the tactician nodded.

"And another thing," Collins added, "you can let this Side Swipe and his buddies know that if one of their little pranks makes its way across my desk again, I can and will make their lives very, very unpleasant."

"Oh, you may rest assured," Prowl offered a shadowy smile, "I will convey the message."

"Good." Collins sat back, glanced at his computer, then said, "File sent. I expect your report by nine tomorrow. Eastern standard time. And don't make me wait this time."

"Understood."

"Fine, Collins out."

The screen went blank before Prowl could say his goodbyes, but if the tactician was insulted, he certainly didn't show it. In fact, Prowl was looking about as smugly superior as Jazz could recall him looking in quite some time, and when the tactician launched himself to his feet, it was with the happy air of a leopard moving toward an easy kill. Twiddling a data chip between a thumb and forefinger, Prowl blew past Jazz and made for the hall, even as the saboteur scrambled to keep pace with the tactician's now-buoyant stride.

"So, uh..." Jazz attempted to ask, as Prowl stalked along the command corridor, and toward his office. "Man, what was that about? Involving the Feds, Prowl -"

But the tactician was in no way inspired to answer him, and as he strode across the threshold of his office, he spun about, leaving no room for Jazz to enter. Stumbling back a step, the saboteur blinked behind the visor, feeling rather uncharacteristically off-kilter as he stared at the tactician. An evil smile crept like frost across the tactician's face, and at once Jazz felt his fuel lines grow cold. Whatever the stakes had been before, the game had shifted now into an entirely new gear, and Sideswipe, Jazz knew with a morbid kind of certainty, was about to find out just how much so. The red warrior was out of his depth, and the tactician was playing for keeps.

The door hissed shut, and Jazz was left alone in the silent hall.

* * *

To Jazz's surprise, Sideswipe was released from custody that very evening. Not a word was said to him; it was merely ordered that he be released, and at once the warrior found himself deposited into the corridor outside the brig.

Jazz was waiting for him. "Man, you're deader than cold slag," he greeted the warrior. "You know that."

"Yeah, I caught on to that much," Sideswipe mumbled as he tossed a furtive glance about him, before striding cautiously off down the hall. "Where is he now?"

"In his office," Jazz told him. "Been in there all day, and ain't made a sound. Listen," he tacked on, as they rounded the corner toward the barracks, "you want me to arrange an escape route for you? I can put you under cover for a while -"

"Better be a long while," Sideswipe interrupted, and Jazz offered a wistful shrug, knowing full well he was right. "A long while. And anyway, who's to say what he's going to do? I don't know if I need to be running or hiding."

"Or groveling," the saboteur suggested.

"Groveling doesn't work on Prowl, or I'd entertain the idea," the warrior grumbled.

"I wasn't talkin' about Prowl, man," Jazz offered a sad smile. "I meant Prime. Get the boss bot on your side, and you might live through this."

But Sideswipe only snorted. "Prime's fed up with me," he asserted as they rounded the last corner. "He'd sooner knock my head off right now than protect me. And anyway, if I went to him, he'd want to know why Prowl was peeved with me, and I sure as slag can't tell him that."

"Well," Jazz crossed his arms as they came to a stop outside of the quarters Sideswipe shared with his brother, "it's either death-by-Prime, or death-by-Prowl, and I highly doubt Ratchet can protect you this time."

Sideswipe stared down and to the side, his optics dark with frustration. It was the unknown that was bothering him, Jazz knew. If he knew what angle the tactician was taking, he could mount a counter-offensive. But he didn't know, and if Jazz knew Prowl at all, Sideswipe wouldn't see the tactician coming until Prowl wanted to be seen. Sideswipe was cornered, and he knew it. With Prime in a full-blown temper, Jazz was really the only hope Sideswipe had left. But really, outside of putting Siders in some kind of Lamborghini witness protection program, Jazz had no choice but to let the red warrior simmer, and hope that Prowl made his move sooner than later. There was simply no other option.

And simmer he did. All that night, and into the next day neither Prowl nor Sideswipe made a sound. The tactician remained holed up in his office; the warrior crept about his duty rotation like a mech awaiting the lightning strike. Prowl must have satisfied the FBI, because as far as Jazz knew, there was no further followup on the part of the humans' law enforcement agencies. He also must have satisfied Prime with some explanation or another, because outside of Optimus seeming a bit more disgruntled in general than usual, he neither probed into the situation, nor seemed to give Sideswipe a second thought. From what Jazz could figure, Prime simply felt that Prowl had things handled.

And boy, was Prime ever right about that.

It started late the next afternoon. Jazz had secretly been worried that he'd have to wait a while to see what Prowl was up to. He'd been torn between concern for Sideswipe's continued existence, and a morbid curiosity to see just how Prowl planned to kill him. Jazz wanted to keep Sideswipe alive, honestly he did; but there was also a very real part of him that had been deeply and satisfyingly entertained by this entire campaign, and so when Prowl finally made his move, the saboteur found it to be immensely gratifying on all fronts. After all, he'd spent a lot of cash buying Prowl off of eBay, and so Jazz had hoped to gain at least some bit of fun from the goings-on.

"What the -" Sideswipe muttered from where he sat in the rec room. He'd just come up off duty, and seemed to prefer the common room to his quarters, so there would at least be witnesses to his death, or so Jazz presumed. Holed up in the corner with his brother, and looking unusually twitchy, he had been quietly playing some game on his datapad, when abruptly his brow furrowed, and his mouth curled up into a little snarl.

"What the what?" Sunstreaker looked over from his own datapad. He was sitting a good arm's length from Sideswipe, while Jazz had taken up vigil across the table, where he awaited the inevitable show.

Furiously, optics darkening, Sideswipe punched a few buttons, obviously to no avail. "What - Sunstreaker," he snapped his gaze up, face livid, "I told you not to change the pass codes on my gaming site, slaggit."

"I didn't change the pass codes, freak," Sunstreaker returned an even stare.

"You did," Sideswipe insisted, giving his datapad a shake. "I can't log on."

"Let me see that," Sunstreaker snapped, and snatched the datapad away from the red warrior before Sideswipe could yank it away. Summoning a data cable from his wrist, he plugged into the pad, then looked up with an icy sneer. "Loser, the last time I was even on your stupid site was three weeks ago. Look." He held up the pad long enough for both Jazz and Sideswipe to see the history readout, and then threw it back in Sideswipe's face. "So settle down."

"I'll settle you down, you -"

"Ok, chill, will you?" Jazz cut in. "You probably just keyed it in wrong."

"With direct link?" Sideswipe countered, and held up his own wrist-mounted data cable. "I tried three times..." Brow still furrowed, he looked back down at the pad, data cable firmly inserted. Shaking his head, he stared at the monitor, his expression changing slowly from annoyance to alarm to a kind of frozen dismay. "No..."

"What now?" Sunstreaker looked up from his datapad, face etched with irritation. At the sight of his brother's face, however, he sat up with a dawning look of concern. "Side -?"

Slowly, looking numb, Sideswipe shook his head back and forth, over and over. "No, no, no...this can't be happening."

"What, man?" Jazz asked, as Sunstreaker leaned over to peer at Sideswipe's screen, brow furrowed.

"Side, what is it?" Sunstreaker prodded him.

Looking thoroughly thunderstruck, Sideswipe shook his head slowly back and forth. It just...it can't...he couldn't have...the gaming site, my email account, my _bank accounts_..." The warrior suddenly looked up at the saboteur, a frozen sort of light in his optics. "Primus alive, you said the feds gave him my file?"

A bizarre sort of smile threatening to bloom across his face, Jazz stared in bemusement at the warrior, and then at once the whole thing clicked into place. "Primus..." he managed, struggling valiantly not to laugh. "Oh Primus...they did."

"SON OF A GLITCH!" Sideswipe roared, and launched himself up from the table.

Transforming, Sideswipe sped furiously through the halls, Jazz's Porsche mode hurtling along in his wake. Sunstreaker obviously wanted nothing to do with the proceedings and simply chose to let his brother thunder off to his own execution, thank-you-very-much. But as for the saboteur, Jazz wasn't missing this for the world, and by the time the warrior and the saboteur rounded the last corner toward the tactician's office, the saboteur was all but bouncing on his tires with glee.

At the last moment, Sideswipe transformed, and hurled himself at Prowl's door, which he wrenched aside in a furious wroth. Snarling wordlessly, he flung himself across the room and at the tactician's desk, where he slammed his hands against the desktop and sent a stack of datapads flying. "You son of a glitch!" he bawled, his his optics black and glinting. "You SON of a GLITCH!"

Glancing up from his vid screen, Prowl offered the warrior a mild look. "Can I help you?"

Optics fritzing, Sideswipe grasped the edges of the desk, his actually fingers digging furrows into the metal. "You..." he breathed, almost beyond being verbal. Prowl stared back at him, face smooth, while Jazz tried to smother a grin from somewhere to Sideswipe's left. "You stole my passwords...my online accounts, my _bank_ accounts..."

"Oh yes, that," Prowl leaned back in his chair as he swiveled to look back down at his screen. "Yes, that's been very handy. I just _love_ shopping on online."

"Shopping online -"

"Oh yes," Prowl smiled, a keen, predatory humor crossing his face by degrees. "In fact, Jazz, you should have a credit on your iTunes account for ten thousand dollars."

"Ten thou-" Sideswipe gripped his helmet.

Jazz whistled. "That'll buy me some beats."

The red warrior shot him a horrified look, then turned back to Prowl, hands still clutching his head. "The Feds - you got them involved _just_ to get my financial file, all of my passwords, all of my accounts, everything -"

"Why yes I did," Prowl grinned down at the screen, swiveling his chair back and forth now as he stared happily at the display. "And would you look at this? Did you know that American Science and Surplus sells gift cards in thousand dollar increments? Wheeljack might like a few of those -"

"Thousand dollar -"

"Oh, why stick with single digits?" Prowl purred at the screen. "Let's round it up to ten thousand for Wheeljack as well. And oh! Look at this!" His optics were positively sparkling. "Their website actually has a section titled 'Robot Partz.' He'll love this!"

"No...no you can't -" Sideswipe was gripping his horns with both hands now.

"Oh, but I did," Prowl assured him, optics twinkling as he glanced up over the top of his vid screen. "But that's not all. I mean, we can't forget Ratchet, now can we? He deserves a nice present after all of his hard work. Let's just..." He tapped the display with a satisfied expression. "Yes, that should do it. Another ten grand."

"Thirty thousand dollars -"

"And oooh, look at this!" Prowl's face lit up as he accessed a new website. "Did you know that they sell yachts eBay? And I know how much you like to shop on eBay."

"A yacht?" Sideswipe actually squeaked. "You can't -"

"I can," Prowl smiled at him darkly.

"No you -"

Finger hovering, Prowl watched the warrior all but coming out of his plating with agitation. "This one here is forty-five thousand dollars. It looks _very_ nice." He wasn't even looking at the screen.

Sideswipe let off a little whine.

Prowl's smile stretched wide.

"You can't -" Sideswipe whispered. "You have no right - you can't..."

"In fact I can," Prowl replied, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. His smile fading away, his optics darkening, he rose slowly out of his chair, like a storm cloud roiling up from the horizon. "I can do whatever I like. And do you know why that is?" Fingers propped on his desk, he leaned forward, his entire frame radiating his victorious wrath.

Standing safely off to the side, Jazz watched with glee while Sideswipe all but shook with horror.

Prowl leaned in, his face like judgement itself. "The last I heard," he explained quietly, too quietly, "was that since all the parts of my body were appropriated by the CRO, I actually _belong_ to the CRO. That's you, isn't it?" The smile reappeared, an ugly twist of the tactician's mouth, but Sideswipe was too frozen to answer. "Why yes, I think it is you. According to Ratchet, you actually _own_ me, isn't that right? Well guess what," he said, moving now to come around his desk. Haltingly, Sideswipe began to back away, even as Prowl advanced. "I have your files, your passwords, access to your bank, your ROTH accounts, your offshore accounts, access to your shopping sites, your Twitter account, your Facebook, your DMV title tags, your library card, your special United States-issued Autobot social security number. I even have a comprehensive list of every security question - and answer - that you have ever assigned to any account during the history of your residence on this planet. In short," he leaned in, even as Sideswipe came abruptly up against the far wall, "if you think you own me, you can think again, because as of today, I _AM_ YOU."

"You can't -" Sideswipe was shaking his head, his optics frozen in horror. "You can't do this -"

"Oh can't I?" Prowl asked, optics glittering like snow. "Did you think," he asked in dangerous tones, "that risking the life of the _executive officer of this unit_ was something I was going to take lightly?" Optics wide and bright, the tactician regarded the warrior, truly angry now, not that Jazz blamed him. All games pushed aside, his face hard, he asked, "Did you think that this game of wits - this battle of wills between us - was worth the welfare and safety of one of the most strategically important officers in the Autobot army?"

Sideswipe shook his head, "Prowl, I -"

"You nothing!" Prowl shouted, and slammed his fist into the wall, inches from the warrior. Jabbing a finger in Sideswipe's face, he continued shouting, "This isn't about me! It's not about my pride, and neither is it about the harm you did to me personally. I don't give a damn about my own safety in this, and you know it. It's the Autobots you put at risk, not me, them." At that, he jabbed a finger toward Jazz, which only made the saboteur sidle back a step. "Do you not understand the risk you took, putting my spark into such a fragile housing, shipping me through the _mail_, where any Decepticon halfway paying attention could have intercepted and taken me hostage? And where would you all be then, when the Decepticons had extracted from me every military secret I have ever known?"

Not to mention extinguishing Prowl in the process. Jazz didn't like to think of it, but in truth, Prowl was making an excellent point.

"Prowl," Sideswipe tried again, but the tactician cut him off with a scathing look.

"No, don't you Prowl me. Not this time," he snapped, his voice lower now, though no less angry. "You have never truly comprehended the fact that we are at war."

"Yes I have -"

"Shut up," Prowl silenced the warrior, and Sideswipe drew back, his face somewhere between insulted and abashed. "Your jokes," the tactician said evenly, "have always been of more value to you even than the lives of your fellow Autobots. I wish to Primus," he raised his voice to forestall Sideswipe's protest, "that this were just about some insult you did to me, because that I could deal with personally, and happily. But's it's not. What you did, you would have done to anyone, and that is what bothers me. In fact, if you had done this to anyone _but_ me, I would have you tried for treason. I take the protection of my Autobots very seriously - very seriously - and it's time that you started to do the same."

"Prowl, I..." Sideswipe shook his head, even as Prowl watched him, giving him half a chance now to speak. But all he did was finish lamely, "...it was just a joke."

"You risking my life is just a joke?" Prowl asked, his voice very, very quiet. "You think risking the life of any Autobot - of Jazz, or Prime, or maybe even _Sunstreaker_ - is a joke?"

"No, I -"

Sideswipe cut himself off this time, his mouth hanging open while Prowl watched him, clearly neither expecting nor receiving a worthy answer. "I understand," Prowl continued, when Sideswipe had been silent for a time, "your need for games. I understand that for you, these kinds of shenanigans are about bleeding off your excess energy, that it's simply your way of exercising yourself when battle can't do it for you. You were made for battle, Sideswipe, to fight with all of your power, and to not stop for anything. This is why you play your games on the home front; it is because you are programmed for action. Inactivity, to you, is unthinkable.

"But what is unthinkable to me," he went on, while Sideswipe watched him, optics wary, "is that you would put your own interests, and your own need for _games_, above not only the life of another Autobot, but above the security of the Autobots as a whole. Above the security of even your own brother. I have survived Decepticon captivity before," he said evenly, "but not while armored only by a half pound of plastic, and running on a central processing unit which had been pared down to fit inside a six-inch body shell. The Decepticons would have torn my processor apart, and everything I know would have been laid bare for Megatron to exploit."

The last part, he said matter-of-factly, and Jazz had to agree that Sideswipe (and to be fair, Ratchet) had crossed a serious line this time. It was true that what they'd done had been pretty innovative, not to mention really damn hilarious if one didn't pause to consider the ramifications. But the seriousness of what Sideswipe and Ratchet had done had not escaped the saboteur's notice, which was part of why he'd wasted no time (and no expense) in rescuing the tactician from being sold at auction. Truly, this would go down in history as one of the greatest stunts of all time, but at what cost?

"Prowl," Sideswipe shook his head, optics still careful, "I'm sorry."

But at that, Prowl only offered a dire little smile. "No, you're not. Not really. No," he began to wander away, leaving Sideswipe with his back still up against a wall, "Sorry is just a word you tend to use after you've indulged yourself in whatever little escapade you had in mind. Oh gee Prowl," he pantomimed as he rounded his desk, "I'm _sorry_ I over-extended my twenty-four-hour pass. I'm _sorry_ I rendered the maintenance bay useless for a week because I glued furbies to every available surface. I'm _sorry_ I _accidentally_ stabbed Optimus Prime in the back. Yes," he threw himself down into his chair, and kicked his feet up on his desk, "forgiveness is easier to ask than permission, am I correct?"

At that, he favored Sideswipe with a little smile, the tactician's rather deadly humor threatening to make its return. For Sideswipe's part, the warrior merely peeled himself away from the wall, and took a tentative step in the direction of Prowl's desk, though he dared to say nothing.

"Well," Prowl tipped him a cold smile, "this time, forgiveness is going to cost you."

"Prowl," Sideswipe pressed his hands together, "please. Listen, I really am sorry."

"No you're not," Prowl countered, smiling nicely now as he returned his attention to the vid screen. "But you will be just as soon as I confirm my Buy-It-Now bid on this shiny new yacht. Oh, and maybe a Rolex to go with it."

Sideswipe stumbled the last few steps to the tactician's desk, where hung onto the side as if his life depended on it. "No don't," he grated, actually stuttering with agitation. "Please, listen...you just...you can't just drain my accounts - "

Prowl leaned back in his chair, face thoughtful. "_Your_ accounts? I see, yes. What was it your brother said to me the other day...something about possession being nine tenths of the law?" Prowl smiled, his face at once righteous and predatory. "And since I am the law around here, I guess that makes up for the other tenth, doesn't it?"

"Don't do this," Sideswipe shook his head. "Don't - I've worked too hard to build up my portfolio. I'll do anything you want. It was wrong, I know. I really am sorry, please -"

"Oh, there is a way out," Prowl told him nicely. "And no need to beg. I'm happy to give you your identity back."

Sideswipe leveled him with a look. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

For a long moment, Prowl considered the warrior before him, a calculating look on his face, his optics still somewhat frosty. He said, "I meant what I said before. Had you done this to any Autobot but myself, I would have had no choice but to court-martial you. However," he allowed, as Sideswipe hovered across the tactician's desk, half-bent and hanging on every word, "because the offense was against me, I have the freedom to deal with this personally, if that's what you want."

"Yes," Sideswipe agreed readily, "just tell me what you want me to do."

"Three things," Prowl told him. Returning his attention to the monitor again, he said, "First, I understand that all CRO activity has been given the green light by Prime himself, since we are low on key inventory. I have an order assembled here," he nodded at the screen, "for supplies that will bring the Ark's defensive artillery cache back up to one hundred percent. All I need is CRO authorization," at this, he tipped a wry look in Sideswipe's direction, "and I will complete the purchase."

"But," Sideswipe breathed, his head shaking slowly back and forth as he obviously did a mental tally, "that'll wipe out more than two thirds of my assets."

"Of course," Prowl touched the screen, and offered an icy smile as he brought another window up, "the alternative is that I drain _all_ of your assets on frivolous purchases, like this yacht. Or maybe three yachts; one just never knows what I might want to buy. Between you and me," he tipped the warrior a look, "I think the fact that I'm leaving you one third of your money is a fairly generous act on my part, don't you think?"

Mouth half-open, optics blanched of color, Sideswipe stared for a long moment, but it was with a dawning look of resignation. He'd put an Autobot in serious danger, and the fact that Prowl was demanding repayment in the form of defensive supplies was not lost on him. At length, he dropped his gaze, and hanging his head a little, nodded mutely.

Prowl tapped the screen, then sat back, offering the warrior a wan smile. "Done. Now, as for the second requirement, because you seem to have apparently become confused about security practices around here, I am assigning all of your duty hours to Red Alert for the next six months."

"Six months?" Sideswipe blurted, and looked up, optics wide, and even Jazz's optics widened behind the visor. Six minutes with Red was enough to make some people snap; six months was outright purgatory.

Blandly, Prowl stared back at the warrior. "Yes, six months. Keeping in mind, of course, you may still choose the courts-martial."

For another frozen moment, Sideswipe stared across Prowl's desk, but even before he spoke, Jazz knew the tactician had him. He'd already committed to the purchase of supplies, and now being assigned to Red Alert was honestly just the obligatory followup slap. It was well deserved, as everyone in the room knew, and it was expected, too; but it was just that - the petty annoyance Prowl could now legally inflict on Sideswipe in addition to the real punishment of having his accounts drained. So at length, the warrior dropped his head again, and nodding silently, assented.

"And the third thing?" Sideswipe asked, his voice barely audible. He looked utterly deflated.

Across the desk, door wings fanned wide with satisfaction, Prowl sat back and watched for a moment as the warrior stood crumpled before him. Then smiling that chilling smile of his, he said quite simply, "All you have to do is get up on a table tomorrow during morning ration, and sing the Prowl is Right and I Am Wrong song."

Sideswipe looked up, his expression twisted into faint puzzlement. "The Prowl is..."

Prowl nodded. "The Prowl is Right and I Am Wrong song. Oh!" he added, optics taking on a rather dreadfully cheery sparkle again, "And you have to wear this. I bought it especially for you off of eBay and had it overnighted. It belonged to a circus hippo, so it should fit nicely."

Digging around in his desk drawer, the tactician came up with a mess of what looked like glitter and organza, and he dumped the mass in front of Sideswipe, who looked on it in pure horror. Gingerly prodding it with a forefinger, the warrior asked, "You want me to...wear this?"

"Oh, and carry this," Prowl said nicely, and held up a golden wand with a light-up star at the end. Giving the switch a flick, he demonstrated the pink and purple flashing LED, even going so far as to give the wand a flourish before depositing it on Sideswipe's side of his desk.

The warrior shook his head, aghast. "I can't..."

"Oh, and the words to the song, here," Prowl flipped him a datapad. "I've written them out for you. You'll be singing them to the tune of 'Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star,' if you please. That gives you tonight to practice, so you'll be ready tomorrow morning."

Optics nearly blanched of all color, Sideswipe shook his head slowly back and forth. "I'm not singing this. There's no way I'm singing this."

Shrugging, Prowl glanced over at his vid screen. "Of course, the other option is that I click 'buy' on this yacht. Not to mention that Rolex. There is one third of your - I mean _my_ - money left, you know. Oh and look! They sell Lamborghinis on eBay. Did you know that? This one is one hundred and eighteen thousand dollars, with free shipping!"

Prowl looked up with what Jazz could only describe as a terrifyingly cheeky grin, and the pure horror of seeing that expression on the normally placid tactician's face was a bit of a shock, not to mention too much for Sideswipe to endure. Shoulders slumping, the red warrior squeezed his optics shut, and hung his head. A moment passed, then another. Then in the quiet voice, he said, "I wear this getup, and sing your song, and I get my accounts back?"

"Your accounts, your identity, even," Prowl tipped his head in a disturbingly jaunty way, "the contents of your quarters."

"The contents of my -" Sideswipe fixed him with a blank look.

"While you were out on patrol," Prowl informed him, "I had every item you own moved to my own personal storage area. Since, as you well know by now, I am you."

That did it. If there had been any reserves left in Sideswipe's ability to stand his ground, that last bit of information took the wind right out of his sails. Jazz watched him slump a little, as the impact sank in, and the warrior realized at last just how far Prowl was wiling to take this, not to mention just how truly angry he was over what Sideswipe had done. If he did not cooperate, he was by all accounts unaccounted for. Which meant, in short, that as of this moment, Sideswipe did not exist.

"I could still go to Prime," Sideswipe rasped, almost as though his mouth were moving of its own accord.

"Will you?" Prowl asked him, expression pleasant.

But they both knew he wouldn't. They both knew he was too proud for one thing, and for another, Prime was more likely at this point to kill him than to help him. What he had done had been truly a gross breach of security, and if Prowl was taking the punitive approach, Jazz was sure that Prime would skip straight to outright mauling the poor warrior. A courts-martial would be the least of his worries, and Sideswipe knew it. Looking utterly defeated, the warrior picked up the costume, the only thing in the world he now owned.

"Zero seven hundred," Prowl informed him crisply.

"Zero seven hundred," Sideswipe mumbled. "I sing your song, I get my life back."

"You sing my song," Prowl smiled, "you get your life back."

Nodding numbly, Sideswipe made his way toward the door, clearly still in shock, not that Jazz felt he deserved any pity, really. Selling one's executive officer on eBay wasn't exactly kosher, and Jazz thought Sideswipe had been being a bit optimistic if he'd thought he was going to get away with it.

Pausing at the door, the warrior asked, "What about the passcode to my room? Can I still get in?"

"No," Prowl replied nicely. "But you should be able to ask your brother to let you in. I do believe that Sunstreaker at least still belongs to you. Perhaps he'll take you in for the night."

A dark look churned in the depths of the warrior's optics, an obdurate sort of light which told Jazz that Sideswipe wasn't entirely cowed. But if he had anything ugly to say, he kept it to himself. "Zero seven hundred," he repeated.

"Zero seven hundred," Prowl affirmed politely. "Oh and Sideswipe," he added, as the warrior sidled out of the door, "let's make it peppy, shall we?"

* * *

Now, depending on the duty rotation, casualty list, and a hundred other little circumstances, the morning mess was sometimes a sparse affair amounting to no more than a handful of bleary Autobots merely looking to down their morning ration before shuffling off to a day's work. No doubt, Sideswipe had hoped that this might be one of those mornings, and that he could perform Prowl's little song and dance in front of a few drowsy bots, and have that be that. Of course, the trouble with having the Head of Special Operations privy to one's impending humiliation was that word tended to get out, and by the time morning rolled around, Jazz's not-so-secret rabble rousing had resulted in quite the sizable crowd. Far from sleepy, the morning mess was all but buzzing with anticipation, and by zero seven hundred, the mess hall was packed to the gills and standing room only.

No one knew what was going to happen, exactly. For all the Autobots knew, Sideswipe had aggravated Prowl some weeks back, but this was nothing new. The ensuing triple shifts Sideswipe earned were nothing new either, as everyone was quite used to these little battles of will between the warrior and the tactician. But rarely did these little contests escalate to full-on public reprisal, and to say that everyone was looking forward to Sideswipe's little performance was an understatement indeed. It was always good fun to see some well-earned humiliation, and besides that, it was lucrative. Smokescreen had a betting pool going on a number of little sidelines, and the war between Sideswipe and Prowl was one of them. Needless to say, several Autobots in the crowd were quite a few credits richer, Jazz being one of them. The saboteur liked Siders, sure, but he'd learned long ago never to bet against his best friend. Prowl was just too slagging scary.

So with a good deal of chattering, not to mention a festive feeling in the air, the Autobot mass awaited Sideswipe's entrance with no small amount of glee. To Jazz's right, just on the other side of Prowl, Optimus Prime sat with his arms crossed, his optics a darker, more foreboding blue than usual. "Trailbreaker tells me we're due to be fully re-armed and re-outfitted by late this week," he muttered, his tone still rife with irritation. He looked as though he still had a mind to deal with Sideswipe himself.

"Yes," Prowl replied lightly, and took a sip of his energon. Setting the cup down, he tapped the rim with one forefinger, the gesture light and pleased, his expression abnormally self-satisfied. "It seems that we've had a generous donation from a mysterious benefactor."

"Indeed," Prime grunted, optics forward as he awaited Sideswipe's appearance. "I hope this benefactor was...sufficiently...generous."

"Oh yes," Prowl assured him, his own optics trained on the makeshift stage at the front of the room. In anticipation of the event, the Autobots had already set up a table, and clustered before it like a flock of crows awaiting the death throes of some poor, hapless soul. Apparently, entertainment came cheap around the Ark, and the Autobots weren't choosy. "I can assure you," the tactician was saying, "the donation was, shall we say, quite selfless."

Jazz grinned a little at that, but if Prime had any reply, it was drowned out by a sudden wave of whistles and catcalls, as Sideswipe at last began to make his entrance. Half the room leaped to their feet, cheering (or perhaps more accurately, jeering) the poor warrior's entrance, so it wasn't until Sideswipe actually dragged himself onto the table top at the front of the room that Jazz got a good look, and when he did, he and the rest of the room just about fell on the floor laughing.

Prowl had planned the thing perfectly, and the effect was spectacular. A pink, sequined tu-tu hung dolefully around the warrior's waist, and a bit of sparkle underneath hinted at a sort of undergarment that no self-respecting Autobot warrior should ever have been meant to wear. A gold lame sash crisscrossed his chestplate, serving as a harness for the gauzy, jaunty wings that stuck out behind his shoulders. A tiara of pink jewels completed His Majesty's ensemble, but what really put the cap on the whole thing was the wand. Shoulders slumped, optics glowering but resigned, Sideswipe clutched the thing like a weapon at his side, while it flashed in poisonous shades of pink. Garish was hardly the word Jazz would have used; putrescent was more like it. And it was a brilliant success.

"Give us a dance!" someone hooted from the front of the crowd, Brawn from the sound of it. Several Autobots roared in agreement, while at least a few hundred pictures were taken. A chant went up, _SideSWIPE!, SideSWIPE!_, the Aerialbots and Protectobots (minus Silverbolt) doing some sort of river dance, while off to the side, Slag let off a few cheerful fireballs of approval for the whole thing. The Dinobots may not have really understood the ages of animosity between Sideswipe and Prowl, but seeing either one of them sufficiently humiliated was good enough for them. They liked a good public persecution, no matter who it was. But then, that was most people.

Standing on the table top and looking deeply resentful, Sideswipe heaved quite the melodramatic sigh while the crowd carried on. He looked like he'd have liked to just get the whole thing over with, but it was a solid few minutes before the crowd could be persuaded to settle down long enough for him to begin. Poor Siders, Jazz reflected; Prowl really had planned this well. Under normal circumstances, the warrior might have done something like this of his own volition, since he'd do just about anything for a laugh. He wasn't easily embarrassed, and even if he'd been forced to do this for breaking some rule or other, it wouldn't have been such a big deal. Sure, he'd have balked at it, like any mech worth his manifolds would have done, but in the end he'd have just gotten on with it, done the thing in a decent amount of self-deprecating humor, and the crowd would have cheered, and that would have been that. Sideswipe, after all, was the King of Funny.

But it wasn't really funny, not now. Oh, it was funny, and it was downright genius; Jazz would admit that all day long. But with the generous helping of guilt Prowl had slapped all over Sideswipe's proverbial plate, somehow getting up in front of the unit and acting a fool just plain hit too close to home. Acting the fool had very nearly endangered them all, and it did not escape Jazz's notice that Prowl was making exactly that point. Sideswipe the fool, on display for everyone to laugh at. It didn't escape Sideswipe's notice either, and it stung him, Jazz could see. It stung him because he knew, and Jazz knew, and Prowl knew that every single Autobot who laughed and clapped for his performance was someone who Sideswipe, by sheer virtue of playing his foolish game, had nearly gotten killed. It was no joke, what he had done. It was no joke, taking such a security risk. And now that the joke was on him, Sideswipe didn't look to be enjoying it.

Of course, what was done was done, and the only choice he had now was to just get on with it. He glanced at Prowl, just a flick of a look, and when at last the crowd finally shut themselves up, Sideswipe merely steeled himself, and with a look heavenward, launched into it.

"_Prowl is right and I am wrong;_

_That's why I wear this sparkly thong._"

A roar went up, and Sideswipe was again drowned out, while the room demanded that he show off the garment in question. Looking mutinous, the warrior stared them all down, clearly not willing to go that far. Near the back of the room, Sunstreaker looked like he was eyeballing the exit, and contemplating any way possible to _not_ be near his brother at this particular time. When the catcalls died down again, Sideswipe continued,

"_I am wrong and Prowl is right;_

_That's why I wave this wand so bright._"

"Give it a wave!" Inferno bawled, and Sideswipe looked like he'd like to hurl the thing at Inferno's head instead. But another flick of a glance at Prowl told him he'd better do the thing right, and Jazz tried hard to get ahold of himself as Sideswipe sullenly swished his wand in time with the music.

"_Prowl is right and I am wrong,_

_and so I sing this little song."_

Another cheer went up as Sideswipe closed the first verse, and Jazz reflected that Prowl was definitely getting his mileage out of this one. At length the cheers (and fireballs) died down, and heaving another sigh, Sideswipe went on,

"_Of my wrongness I lament;_

_This tu-tu is a testament_

_To my gross stupidity_

_And my crass pomposity._

_I am wrong and Prowl is right;_

_I sing this song with all my might."_

The river-dancing was going full strength now, and even Silverbolt had joined in, not to mention several of the minibots. Whoever wasn't dancing was swaying in ludicrous time to the music, Jazz included. Even Prowl was nodding along, and Prime was looking less murderous, and more pleased with life. Optics still fixed on the ceiling, Sideswipe went on with the last of it,

"_If you observe my fairy wings,_

_You will realize why I sing._

_It's because I am an idiot,_

_A pestilential little shit._

_I am a criminal cockroach;_

_Prowl's rightness is beyond reproach."_

A bawling laugh went up at that, this time from Prime's quarter, even as Sideswipe plowed on with the final refrain,

"_Prowl is right and I am wrong;_

_I hope you liked my little song."_

At that, he heaved another sigh, then took a little self-deprecating bow, most likely to indicate that the ordeal was over, thank-you-very-little, and he had plans of exiting the room now post-haste. But the Autobots had no such plans, and neither had Prime. "Again!" the Autobot commander roared, and the Autobots roared with him, clapping and shoving Sideswipe back onto the stage, even as he tried to climb down. The poor warrior tossed another glance at Prowl, but all the tactician did was take another sip of his energon, while Jazz positively wheezed with laughter, too overcome to offer any help, and so Sideswipe was left with no choice but to sing again.

But this time it wasn't so bad. Blaster threw himself onstage and transformed to provide accompaniment in the form of a pretty wicked 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' remix. Where he got that, Jazz didn't know, but it had a pretty serious beat to it, and had Rewind and Eject up on stage and dancing in no time. The Aerialbots and Protectobots joined soon after, and what had started out as a humiliation sort of denigrated into something more of a fantastic joke. As Sideswipe sang, Air Raid divested him of his crown, Groove his wings, and Slingshot his wand, which the littlest Aerialbot used like a conductor's baton. Slingshot directing in front, Sideswipe looking a little less persecuted now, the red warrior sang the song through again, while the Autobots joined in at the top of their vocalizers.

It was a rousing success. They weren't laughing at him now, but with him, and about the time that Jazz launched himself on stage and relieved Sideswipe of his tu-tu, he could tell that the warrior was actually starting to find the whole thing rather funny. Even Prime was laughing and singing along, and by about the fourth or fifth iteration, whatever tension had been in the air was gone. Eventually Prime did shoo everyone along to their duty rotations, but even that he did with good humor, and as they went, the Autobots en masse could be heard singing the 'Prowl is Right and I am Wrong Song" for at least several hours thereafter. Sideswipe had been allowed to live, the Ark was being re-outfitted, the Autobots were entertained, Prime was appeased, and for a long time thereafter, Prowl was very, very popular indeed.

As strategies went, they were some of the best laid plans Jazz had ever seen.

* * *

It was later that evening when Jazz was summoned to Prowl's office. Wasting positively no time, the saboteur presented himself, only to find Prowl still in a most unusual good mood.

Feet up on his desk, Prowl favored Jazz with a particularly wicked smile as the saboteur let himself in. "Pull up a chair," he gestured at the seat beside him, and Jazz let himself down warily to sit, not sure whether he should be out rescuing someone from whatever the tactician was smiling about.

"We're not still killing Sideswipe are we?" the saboteur asked tentatively.

But Prowl only shook his head, an airy expression on his face as he poured Jazz a glass of his favorite brand of high-grade energon. Passing it over, he poured a glass for himself, then adjusted the monitor with his foot as he settled himself in to watch. "No, I believe Sideswipe has been sufficiently dealt with. But there is someone else who I think deserves some attention, don't you?"

"Oh man," Jazz's optics widened behind the visor as he took in the view on the monitor, and realized whose quarters they were looking at. "Oh man, you're not. Tell me you're not."

On screen, Ratchet shuffled into view, clearly looking tired and ready to recharge. Giving his shoulder a hitch, he puttered for a minute or two over his desk, shuffling through datapads and making a few notes before he retired for the evening. "Yes," Prowl replied, as Ratchet let himself down to sit heavily on his bedside, where he rubbed his face with a thumb and forefinger. "Yes, I believe I am."

"Prowl, man, that's..." the saboteur shifted a worried gaze over toward the tactician, "...that's Ratchet, man. He'll kill you for sure. Tell me you're not tryin' to get back at him."

"Oh, but I'm not," Prowl turned Jazz a smile, even as Ratchet soundlessly swung his legs up on his berth, and settled silently back to rest. The sound was turned off, and it made the scene somehow more ominous. "You see," Prowl was saying, "the receipts for the purchase are all in Sideswipe's name. I gave him his identity back this morning, and if Ratchet looks into this - which after some lengthy psychotherapy he no doubt will - all signs will point to Sideswipe. So you see," he turned back to the screen, and reached for a remote control, "all is well that ends well."

"And by end," Jazz muttered, transfixed by the screen, "you so mean the end of Ratchet's last few shreds of sanity." He'd already leaped forward mentally, and knew what Prowl was about to do. "This is gonna scar him for life, man."

"Well yes," Prowl replied, snugging himself nicely into his chair, his door wings held in that easy way that spoke of supreme self-satisfaction, "that is the plan." Then he hit the switch on the remote, and Jazz gripped the arm rest of his chair as far away in the medic's quarters, tucked under his bed, an electronic door snapped open.

In a sudden, slithering black mass, garter snakes spilled out from under the bed. For a moment, Ratchet lay still, but then probably sensing the warmth of the big medic, the roiling wave of serpents began to climb up the posts of the bed, and the medic's optics snapped wide. He visibly tensed, then sat straight up, and after one frozen, startled moment, opened his mouth wide into a most terrifying scream.

Ten thousand dollars' worth of snakes boiled over every surface of the medic's room, writhing across the floor, up the legs of his desk, his bed, even the walls, and though the sight wouldn't have bothered Jazz on its own, he knew that for the herpetophobic medic, this was probably a nightmare come true. "Snakes under the bed," Jazz shook his head. "That's cold."

"So is rebuilding me into a six-inch toy, and letting Sideswipe sell me on eBay," Prowl returned mildly, and took a sip of his high-grade. "If Ratchet didn't want to play hardball, he shouldn't have taken the first at-bat."

True, Jazz mused to himself, and found himself even more amused that Prowl was resorting to sports analogies now. On screen, the medic was all but climbing the walls, and Jazz reasoned that it was a fair turn of events. Nothing much scared Ratchet, but for some reason, snakes did, and Jazz he figured that the big medic would think twice before crossing Prowl again.

Now Grapple was charging in, and a violent argument ensued as the architect kicked a few snakes into the air on entry, and accidentally sent them flying in Ratchet's direction. Slapping them away with a hysterical sort of pinwheeling motion, Ratchet actually managed to bounce one of the poor things off of Grapple's head, who in turn batted it away with an increasing look of alarm on his own face. Hands on his head, one foot in the air, Grapple looked for all the world like he was trying to climb on top of himself, and Jazz was just beginning to wonder if the architect was losing it when Hoist blundered into the room.

Snickering, Prowl noted, "You know, it's actually funnier without sound."

Snakes were exploding now out of Ratchet's quarters and into the medical bay. Grapple still stood on one foot, as though seeking as little contact with the ground as possible, while Hoist threw his hands up in the air, no doubt yelling at Ratchet that they were just snakes, for Primus' sake, not that the medic was having it. Still standing on his bed, and looking like he was about to begin foaming at the mouth, he jabbed a quivering, horrified finger at the bay beyond, clearly yelling about the escapees who were even now sliding in a simmering mass between Hoist's feet and onward toward freedom.

"So," Jazz asked, taking a sip of his own high-grade, while on the monitor before him, Hoist began picking the snakes up one by one, and depositing them into a box. They climbed out faster than he could put them in, and with Grapple still trying desperately not to step on them, and Ratchet doing his best to Spider-Man on up the walls, it was about the best live version of the Three Stooges that Jazz had ever seen.

"So?" Prowl asked mildly, his feet still up, his wings still fanned out in total relaxation.

"So," Jazz continued, "you gonna call Smokescreen, or should I? I ain't a professional, but I'd say it's a good bet Ratchet's therapy sessions oughta start tonight."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be aware of the situation in no time," Prowl assured the saboteur, even as Hot Spot and Streetwise made their entrance on screen. It seemed that Hot Spot was offering to carry Ratchet to a snake-free location, but even scared, Ratchet had his pride, and could be seen telling Hot Spot to piss off from here to the moon. Behind him, the rest of the Protectobot team had added themselves to the melee, and after a brief bit of confusion and unfortunate snake-stomping, they quickly organized themselves, and began helping Hoist with the reptile boxing efforts.

After that, the rescue operation went more smoothly, and Jazz was happy to see Smokescreen show up at last, coax Ratchet down from his perch, and escort him out to the medical bay, where he could be no doubt seen to for his newly acquired nervous condition.

"Somebody's gonna die for this," Jazz noted, as Prowl refilled his glass with high-grade. "You do know that."

"Yes, and it won't be me," Prowl replied with a rather breezy smile. "Isn't that something?"

Jazz quirked a smile in return, and took another sip. "So you're not gonna tell Prime about what happened?"

Prowl shook his head, optics back on the screen, where Groove could be seen digging snakes out from under Ratchet's bed. "For Sideswipe's safety, no. Between you and me, I don't think Prime would be half as lenient as I was."

"Probably not," Jazz agreed, as down the hall he began to just make out the sounds of carrying on. There was someone yelling, something about the snakes, while someone else started up another rendition of the 'Prowl is Right and I am Wrong Song'. It seemed that Prowl wasn't the only one entertained by the snake bomb, and Jazz reasoned that the day's allotment of levity wasn't quite over. "You know," he noted, with a bit of a sideways look at the tactician, "you're about the scariest best friend a brother ever had."

Prowl turned him a beatific smile. "Why thank you, Jazz. Coming from you, I take that as a real compliment."

"Yeah, well, remind me never to cross you," Jazz shrugged, and thanked Primus not for the first time that day that he was on Prowl's side of things.

Still smiling, Prowl watched the screen before them, where the roundup efforts continued unabated. "Oh, I doubt you have to worry about that. You're smart enough not to make Ratchet's and Sideswipe's mistakes."

Smart enough, or scared enough? Jazz wondered. But then, he supposed it was all semantics after all, and far from worrying about it, resigned himself to drinking high-grade, and kicking back to watch the show with the only mech in the world who could instill in him the fear of Primus.

The fear of Primus, and the satisfaction of ever being kept on his toes. And between those two things, Jazz contented himself with a friendship worth more than all money in the world.


	5. Round 5

**Round 5**

It was two days later when there came a knock at Prowl's door. It was late in the day, well past the supposed end of the tactician's duty shift, and he had been doing a comparative analysis of the day's scouting reports, a task which to him was like an elaborate and deeply interesting puzzle, the perspectives, observations and even personal nuances of each scout telling him far more than the simple facts of the report might have indicated. Tactical work was a game to him, a many-layered riddle which was so engrossing that quite often, Optimus Prime had to actually force him to take a break and power down. Prowl's mental capacity put him at the savant level, even for a Cybertronian. The Praxan Academy of Mathematics and Logistics had labeled him a rare level of genius; the Autobot Jazz Academy of Endless Snarkery had labeled him an incurable and categorical nerd. If Prowl were being honest, he had to suppose the truth lay somewhere in between.

The knock sounded again, and reluctantly, the tactician looked up from his work. "Come in."

The door hissed aside, and the bulky form of the Chief Medical Officer hovered there for a moment, as if struggling with some last minute indecision. But after a pause, he let himself inside, and as the door hissed shut behind him, he settled himself ponderously into the chair opposite Prowl's, all the weight of his years like an invisible cloak across his shoulders. There was an ageless quality to the tactician, a serene facade that almost perfectly hid the scars borne of so long a war. But not so the medic. Though there was no outward sign to mark his metal frame, there was a heaviness to him, a burdened quality that seemed to bend him under its weight just a little more with each passing year.

Eying the tactician briefly, the big medic pressed his mouth shut, optics narrowed in momentary disgruntlement before the settled at length against the chairback, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He did not often make an appearance in the tactician's office, and he sat now like a landed trout, vastly uncomfortable and out of place. But to his credit, he did not look away.

"So." Ratchet drummed his fingertips once against the armrest.

"So." Prowl set his datapad aside, and laced his fingers together atop his desk.

Another moment passed, in which the big white medic regarded Prowl with a decidedly beady expression. They did not dislike each other, but there was no love lost between them either, and they all too often found themselves at odds with one another. By Ratchet's reckoning, Prowl was too straitlaced; from Prowl's view, Ratchet was far too sloppy. He was a brilliant medic, and orderly in all things related to his profession, but his attempt at any form of military bearing could be called rickety at best. He made a wretched officer, and Prowl would admit that this ruffled his proverbial feathers, if only a little.

"So," the medic said again.

"So," Prowl repeated, and wondered if they would be at this all night. He had things to do.

Ratchet heaved a (rather unnecessarily dramatic) sigh, shifted his bulk, and said, "So, I'm guessing that words like 'got carried away' and 'probably took things too far' might be a good opener here."

"To which," Prowl said dryly, "I might respond with words like, 'vast understatement,' and could counter that the use of the word 'probably' is a massively unnecessary adverb in this context."

Ratchet glanced sideways, biting his lip. "At which point, I might supply words like, 'had implanted a homing beacon on you,' and 'knew Sideswipe had plans to rescue you after he'd made his point."

"In which case," Prowl replied in clipped tones, "I might not have to use words like 'gross breach of ethics,' 'courts-martial,' and 'bust you down so far in rank you'd be saluting the floor buffer.'"

Ratchet shifted, drummed his fingers once more. "If you did," he said, "I might also use words like, 'had triple-reinforced titanium shielding around your spark,' and 'was monitoring your location at all times.'"

"To which," Prowl shot back, "I might respond with words like, 'have you lost your damned mind?'"

Ratchet sighed sharply, and ran a hand over his face. "You know I lost my damned mind ages ago."

Silence fell at that, though it held a little less tension than the one which had blanketed the room moments ago. Prowl stared down at the desk, his optics tracing the faint scratches and indents etched out from years of use, while Ratchet looked away toward the tactician's book shelf, his optics roving the neatly organized datatracks, probably without seeing them at all. Apologizing was something Ratchet almost never had to do, first and foremost because the medic's tight reign on his own emotions meant that he rarely allowed himself to be sorry about anything. He had an overdeveloped sense of compassion, something which perversely made him act the opposite. He could not afford his own empathetic nature, not in the operating room, not in the field with the bullets flying and the mechs dying beneath his fingers, so he took special care to be as abrupt and matter-of-fact as he could. The fact that he was a particularly brilliant field medic did not mean that he was meant for war, and Prowl understood that the Chief Medical Officer's gruff manners were simply the defenses he put up to survive the war.

But acting the bear was not something that worked on all fronts, and that was what had brought him here tonight. Prowl had angered Ratchet by putting Sideswipe on triple shifts. Ratchet's legendary temper had flared to its usual extremes, and instead of just reacting, this time he went too far which, to be honest, Ratchet sometimes did. The trouble however, was that even though the medic's growling front usually kept the crushing weight of his own compassion at bay, each time his bullying went too far, it all came crashing back down on him in the form of remorse. In short, Ratchet felt bad about what he'd done. Except, when Ratchet felt bad, he felt _terrible_. And to further compound the problem, Prowl knew that each time Ratchet faced how bad he felt, he ended up facing not just the instance in question, but all instances, back to the very beginning of the war. The landscape of his own compassion _was_ a battlefield to Ratchet, and Prowl knew that with each passing year, the medic was losing the war.

Ratchet shifted again, his optics swinging back to Prowl's desk, though they traveled no higher. "I suppose," he said at length, "that the words 'I' and 'sorry' should probably be strung together in some form of a sentence."

"Well," Prowl replied quietly, knowing that this was the most the medic could give of himself, "I'd add a verb in there just to be safe. But otherwise I'd offer words like 'apology' and 'accepted.'"

Ratchet quirked a tired half-smile, just a hitch to his mouth, then looked away at the book shelf again. For another long minute, he considered the neat rows, the tired lines of his face easing a bit, his optics a dim, faraway gray, like the sea under a winter sky. At length he asked, his tone mild, "I suppose Prime will have something to say about this?"

But Prowl merely shrugged, and answered, "About what?"

Ratchet's optics snapped toward Prowl's at that. "What do you mean, about what?"

Again, the tactician shrugged. "Well," he replied, "according to the Executive Officer's log, it seems I was down for repairs during those two days." The medic narrowed his optics, clearly puzzled, if not a little suspicious, so Prowl tacked on, "I place a high value on a certain medic and his pet warrior, and I see no reason why there should be any further investigation at this time, particularly into a matter that has no record of taking place."

"You," Ratchet deadpanned, sitting up a little. "See no reason. You of all people."

Prowl offered a wan smile. "Well, let's just say that if Prime were to become involved, words like 'righteous warpath,' and 'overzealous moral fury,' and 'punitive overkill' might have to be used."

Ratchet favored him with a most incredulous look. "You do realize," he said, "that this is serious case of the pot calling the kettle black."

"Well yes," Prowl did not disagree, "but if one looks at my moral obligations as executive officer, one might realize that once justice has been served, it is unjust to serve it any further. Also, tactically speaking, it would disrupt my feng shui to have to deal with one of Prime's temper tantrums just now, when my time could be better spent thinking up ways to make Megatron cry. So that is, as they say, that."

Ratchet stared back at him for several seconds, then uttered a snort, and settled back again in his chair. A smile had begun to play about his mouth, not to mention a dawning expression of surprise, though he was clearly trying to hide it. "And you," he said slowly, almost rolling the words around in his mouth, "think justice has been adequately served. In my case, that is."

"In the optic-for-optic sense, no," Prowl answered readily. "But in the sense that the words 'I' and 'sorry' were used genuinely, I'm willing to let it slide. Besides, I can assure you that if I ever feel the need for true payback, I have no qualms about having First Aid rebuild you into a My Little Pony, and selling you off to the first little girl who clicks 'Buy It Now.' If I were you, I would take my leniency and run."

Now Ratchet's mouth stretched into a true smile, the gray in his optics leaning now toward blue. "What color?" he asked, after a moment.

"What color what?" Prowl queried, his fingers still laced on his desk.

"I mean," Ratchet explained, shifting to sit up a little, "what color pony?"

"A rainbow unicorn, of course," Prowl replied, completely straight-faced. "With sparkles."

"Sparkles, tuh," Ratchet rolled his optics, and waved the tactician's threat away as he levered himself out of his chair, clearly trying to keep up his grumpy facade, though Prowl could tell he was amused. It was rare that the tactician and the medic saw optic-to-optic, and Prowl could tell that their little moment of peaceful coexistence was ruffling the medic's feathers somewhat. Which of course made Prowl all the more happy.

On his feet now, Ratchet heaved a sigh and stretched a little, before digging around in a compartment on his arm. Withdrawing a bottle, he set it casually down on Prowl's desk, and said, "Thought I'd bring along some insurance. Not that bribes work on you or anything, but...well, there you go."

For a moment, Prowl simply stared, for once without words. It was a bottle of Praxan wine, something he had not seen in more years than he could count. Faintly luminous, the bottle not much more than a slim vial, it was a reminder of a place he had once called home.

A fleeting expression crossed his face, half-wistful, half pained. He tried to hide it, but Ratchet saw it. "Been holding onto that for years," the medic told him quietly. "Thought you might like to have it."

Prowl nodded, and smiled a little, though he could not quite meet the medic's optics. "Thank you, Ratchet."

"Sure," Ratchet said, hovering, as though he'd have liked to say more. But the battleground of his own emotions was only just now beginning to go quiet, and anyway, no more words were really necessary. "So," he said after a pause, "I better go check on Blaster. He's setting up movie night, and the last I heard, that bastard's planning to show Anaconda. It's my medical opinion that he might live longer if he comes up with another option."

Quirking a smile, Prowl met Ratchet's optics, and nodded. "I would concur with your medical advice, and order you to dispense all remedies forthwith."

Ratchet matched his smile and, backing away, said, "Night, Prowl."

"Good night, Ratchet," Prowl nodded again, and after the medic was gone, he sat for a long time staring closed door, and wondering. Then at length he looked down at the bottle, and wasting no thought for the future, poured himself a glass of wine, and dreamed for a time, and drank to memories of home.

* * *

The next morning when he walked into the command center for the staff meeting, Jazz took one look at him, and actually fell out of his chair laughing. Ironhide's reaction was slower, his mouth drawing into a wide, crusty grin, while Ratchet contented himself with looking darkly amused. Prime merely stared at him with deep suspicion.

"Why," the Autobot commander asked in disgruntled tones, "are you pink?"

For about one tenth of a second, Prowl paused to consider the situation, not having realized his condition until now. Then he said as he took his seat, "Well I imagine it is a condition brought on by something I drank last night."

Actually, literally on the floor, Jazz's gulping laughter had Prowl wondering if the saboteur were going to be sick. He sounded like a wounded sea lion.

Prime regarded Prowl with narrowed optics as the tactician ordered his notes for the meeting, the commander's expression somewhere between incredulous and powerfully annoyed. In truth, Prowl didn't blame him; things had been rather a bit of a goat rodeo around the Ark lately, and he had not he notion that Prime was beginning to suspect he'd been left out of the loop on a few key events. "And how long," the commander asked, "do we suppose this condition will last?"

"Oh, I'd say maybe another few hours," Ratchet supplied, his voice tight. He was having trouble keeping a straight face. "This evening, tops."

"That's it!" Prime slapped a hand on the table. "I don't know what's going on with the lot of you, but it ends with this. Am I understood?"

"Of course, Prime," Prowl nodded serenely.

"Oh sure," Ratchet emitted, then bent over in that sort of silent laughing fit that's largely made up of helpless wheezing, and which never fails to make a mech look like a gasping carp.

Ironhide just shrugged, nonplussed; Jazz was nigh-on hysterical.

"Because I've had it with this crap," Prime went on, glaring at all of them in turn. "I expect this donkey farm stuff from Sideswipe and his herd of degenerates, but not from my own lieutenants. Whatever this is," he proclaimed, sounding dire indeed, "it stops HERE and NOW. _Am I understood_?"

"Yes, Prime," Prowl replied evenly, meeting the commander's gaze with a smooth expression, which was just as well, as he was the only one capable of response. Ironhide looked simply stymied; Jazz and Ratchet had lost the ability to speak.

"Good," Prime grumbled, not sounding like he thought anything was good at all. "Because I've had it. HAD IT." With that, he bent his head over his own notes, though he probably wasn't reading a one of them. Most likely, he was the most peeved over being left out of things, though Prowl figured he'd just have to suffer on that account. The tactician just had things wrapped up too neatly to open up this can of worms all over again.

"And get up off the floor," Prime added after a pause, actually bothering to haul Jazz up when the saboteur didn't respond, and dump him like a sack of rocks into his chair. Once there, Jazz simply wilted over the table, and laughed for another good ten minutes.

But pink or not pink, Prowl was happy with the balance of things, and order now restored to his world, he set himself to the task of droning through the meeting minutes as was his usual wont. The world was right again, and though his home may have been a million miles away, there were days when Prowl was content in his place as executive game warden of the Autobot zoo, first mate of the interstellar madship called the Ark.

Besides, the word home was truly relative, wasn't it? Just a matter of semantics in the end.


End file.
